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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



























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By CLARA MULHOLLAND, 

AUTHOR OF “THE MISER OF KINO’S COURT,” “PERCY’S REVENGE,” “THE 
STRANGE ADVENTURES OF LITTER SNOWDROP, ETC., ETC. 



f* copyright 

APR 2P1R90 

02 - y 


^shingto^ 


BALTIMORE: 

JOHN MURPHY & CO. 

1890. 






Copyright, 1S90, by John Murphy & Co. 




KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


CHAPTER I. 

It is mid-winter. The air is sharp and bitterly 
cold; and as Kathleen climbs the hill she draws 
her cloak more closely round her and tightens the 
fur at her throat. 

“ Surely, they will not turn them out on such a 
day as this/ 7 she murmurs, “a day unusually severe, 
even here, in the wilds of Donegal. Where is 
Lionel, I wonder ? Why does he not come to tell 
me what has been decided ?” and she turns, and 
anxiously scans the horizon. 

The prospect on every side is bleak and wild. 
Inland the rugged mountains lift up their fantastic 
peaks against the morning mists. Away towards the 

3 



4 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


ocean the bare headlands project far out, dark with 
bogs and marsh, from which, at intervals, rise huge 
masses of bleached rock. The calm waters of 
Lough Swilly are low, and along the sides of the 
winding bay the sands lie bare and yellow, in the 
dreary light of this dull winter’s day. For miles 
not a creature is visible, and the thin lines of smoke 
rising here and there against the sky, alone, indi¬ 
cate the small cabins in which, in the midst of this 
desolate country, human beings contrive to live. 

“Pie has forgotten his promise, or his news is 
bad,” sighs the girl. “Poor Pat—poor Mary. 
God grant you courage and patience,” and she hur¬ 
ries on up the hill. 

Kathleen Burke is eighteen, lithe and graceful as 
a young fawn, and as she walks briskly over the 
rugged hill-side, the exercise and sharp wind bring 
a brilliant color to her usually pale cheeks, which 
enhances the beauty of her deep blue Irish eyes and 
delicately chiselled features. But as the girl steps 
along there is no one near to notice how she is 
looking, and her own mind is too busy with other 
and more serious thoughts to allow her time to 
reflect upon what her appearance may be. It is 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


5 


not, indeed, a subject that ever interests her much, 
and to-day it is a matter about which she is abso¬ 
lutely indifferent. 

At the top of the hill Kathleen pauses again, and 
as she looks around she starts, her color fades, and a 
sad, then an indignant expression flashes across ,lier 
face, and her dark eyes are filled with an angry 
light. 

“ What are the police coming here for this morn¬ 
ing?” she cries. “ It will not require a mounted 
guard to drive poor Pat from his cabin; and yet, 
surely, they are riding this way. I hear the clatter 
of their horses’ feet.” 

But presently the sound of merry voices and gay 
laughter was borne towards her on the breeze, and 
as the riders approached she saw that they were not 
policemen, as she had supposed, but a cavalcade of 
ladies and gentlemen, followed by several dogs. 

“Only a riding party from the Wood House,” 
she murmured with a sigh of relief; and she turned 
aside, anxious to escape notice, if she could. 

But on the barren hill-side concealment was 
impossible, and as the eyes of one of the riders fell 
upon the slim figure in the long crimson cloak and 


6 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


small round hat, he pulled up his horse and sprang 
quickly to the ground. 

“Kathleen,” he cried, grasping her warmly by 
the hand and looking inquiringly into the dark 
. eyes that were raised in eager expectation to his 
face, “ Why are you up here alone ? ” 

“ Why ? Have you forgotten your promise ? ” 

“Certainly not. But did you not receive my 
letter ? ” 

“ No, Lionel, and I came here to meet you, hoping 
that you would have good news for me. Tell 
me—has your father relented? May Pat and his 
little ones remain in their home? ” 

“ My father will not relent. Pat O’Connor is 
lazy and idle, he says, and to-morrow afternoon go 
he must.” 

Kathleen’s eyes filled with tears and her lips 
quivered. 

“God help him and his children. Where,” glanc¬ 
ing over the dreary moor-land, “are they to go?” 

“To the Union at Dunfanaghy. That is the 
best home for creatures like them.” 

Kathleen’s color rose and she started away from 
his side. 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


7 


“ Lionel Dean, your words are cruel,” she cried. 
“ But perhaps you are not aware that for years, day 
and night, late and early, Pat O’Connor worked on 
his small holding, which in the beginning was 
merely a piece of bog? That he built the little 
cottage in which he has lived happily for the last 
four years ? That then the rent was raised ; and as 
Pat could not pay it he and his children were 
evicted ? ” 

Lionel shrugged his shoulders. 

“ They all tell the same tale. I would not be¬ 
lieve them if I were you.” 

“ I believe what I know to be true,” said 
Kathleen coldly, “ and I assure you, Mr. Dean, this 
story is correct in every particular. Father Lavens 
offered to pay a year’s rent, and personally guaran¬ 
teed the future payment, but the offer was roughly 
refused. Poor Pat, in the dead of the night, took 
possession of his house, from which he declared lie 
had been illegally evicted. It was pulled down over 
his ears and he was sent to jail. On his release 
he built a kind of wooden hut, and gathering to¬ 
gether the few pieces of furniture that the neighbors 
had kept for him he settled down peacefully in his 


8 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


new home. But again the agent and his men were 
upon him. They pulled down his cabin, threw the 
furniture into the lough, and sent him once more to 
prison. A fortnight ago he returned, built himself 
a kennel—I can call it by no other name, and has 
taken refuge there.” 

“ It is a sad story. But why is the man so per¬ 
tinacious ? Why cannot he go elsewhere ? ” 

“ Why? Can any one explain the love—the in¬ 
fatuation that binds an Irish peasant to his home? 
You, I am sure, could never understand it, for you 
are a stranger. But I who have dwelt amongst 
these hills all my life—I who know what a sorrow 
it would be to me to leave this wild, lonely country, 
can sympathize with him from my heart. The love 
of home is strong, and to my mind the feeling is 
very beautiful. I cannot believe that you do not 
think so.” 

“I do. I consider it most touching,” he said, 
looking admiringly at her glowing face. “ But 
what can be done? When idle fellows like this— ” 
“He is not idle/’ interrupted Kathleen indig¬ 
nantly. “ When he had work to do he did it well. 
Oh, what a mockery it is to hear you and your 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


9 


fellows, rich landlords and their sons, talk of the idle¬ 
ness of these peasants. You, who pass your days 
hunting, or shooting, or gambling. Spending in 
luxurious living in your mansions, here or in Lon¬ 
don, the rents extracted from a starving people. 
Taking no interest in their lives, feeling no responsi¬ 
bility, never lending a helping hand to them in their 
misery; and then, when the money falls short, casting 
them forth to die upon the roadside, calling them 
lazy and idle, unworthy of any better fate. But 
believe me, such conduct must bring down upon you 
the vengeance of God. Sooner or later He will 
punish you for this cruel neglect of your duty.” 

Lionel had flushed hotly during this speech. He 
felt angry with the girl for her blunt speaking. 
And yet in his heart he could not but acknowledge 
that a great deal of what she said was true. 

Twenty years before Mr. Norman Dean, Lionel’s 
father, had purchased the large property, extending 
for many miles over one of the wildest parts of 
Donegal. At that time the tenants had each a 
small farm, with a patch of land attached, on which 
they grazed their few sheep and cows; and they had 
contrived by their patient industry to reclaim por- 


10 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


tions of the barren mountain. Much of this the 
new landlord took away from them, and, instead of 
giving them compensation, doubled, and in many 
instances, trebled the rent. But of this Lionel 
knew little. As a lad, coming home from Eton, he 
had enjoyed a month or six weeks in his father’s 
beautiful house near Lough Swilly; had delighted 
in the fishing and shooting, and liked the peasantry 
fairly well. They were always good-natured, treat¬ 
ing the “young master” with much respect. His 
father had done a good thing, people said, in 
buying this Irish property, and was getting high 
interest for his money. That was pleasant hearing; 
and so long as Lionel’s allowance was large, and his 
father in good humor, the young man troubled his 
head little about whence the money came, or how it 
was obtained. But suddenly there came a change. 
The people could not pay their rent—evictions fol¬ 
lowed. Cottages were razed to the ground; and, 
heedless of what became of his starving tenants, 
Mr. Dean drove them off his land, and let thousands 
of acres of mountain to a Scotch farmer, who paid 
him a higher percentage than the hard-working 
peasant had ever been able to do. So the landlord 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEN. 


11 


did not suffer and evictions went on apace. Then 
Lionel returned from Oxford ; but, absorbed in 
his own amusements, he took but small interest in 
his father’s affairs and scarcely noticed the changes 
that had been made in the estate. But he was not 
allowed to remain long in this state of indifference. 
And to his surprise he soon found himself making 
inquiries about the condition of the people, and 
even remonstrating with his father for his harshness 
in turning Pat O’Connor from his farm. In this, 
however, he was not following the promptings of 
his own heart, but merely obeying the instructions 
of Mrs. Burke and her daughter, who were his 
best, and I may almost say, his only friends in 
Donegal. 

As a child little Kathleen had been the big 
school-boy’s favorite companion, and she had looked 
up to him with much affection and respect. His 
holidays had been the brightest and happiest time 
of her life. And when he came back from the 
university, announcing his intention of spending a 
large portion of his time in Donegal, she was truly 
glad, and in the simplicity of her heart took no 
trouble to conceal her pleasure. 


12 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


The whole of Kathleen’s young life had been 
spent in Donegal, and she knew nothing of the fair 
world beyond. She loved her home; the grim 
bare mountains, and the dark, deep waters of Lough 
Swilly. But above all she loved the people, and 
longed to see them happy. Mr. Dean was a cruel 
landlord, who, like a modern Shylock, would have 
his pound of flesh. But Lionel was kind-hearted, 
chivalrous and honorable. Through him, she 
hoped to see justice done. And full of sympathy 
for the sufferings she saw around her, she urged 
him to do something to improve the condition of 
the unhappy tenants. But he was hard to move. 
He liked to listen to the young girl’s pleading, to 
watch the color deepen in her cheek, to see her 
dark eyes kindle with indignation, as she told the 
story of an eviction, or the poverty of some unfor¬ 
tunate family. But he considered such a show of 
feeling excessive, putting it down to a tenderness 
of heart, which though worthy of admiration in 
one so young, was nevertheless quixotic and not 
worthy of much attention. The land was his 
father’s. He had invested his money in it, and 
had a right to get as high a rate of interest as he 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


13 


could. If the tenants could not pay, the tenants 
must go. They were idle, lazy, and unprofitable, 
he was told, then why should they encumber the 
earth ? Far better cover the hill-sides with Scotch 
sheep than with useless creatures like these. Lionel, 
however, was not hard-hearted, only careless and 
indifferent, and when Kathleen had pressed him to 
ask his father to allow Pat O’Connor to remain in 
his wretched hovel, he consented to do so at once. 
But Mr. Dean was determined. Pat must go. 
And he soon made his son believe that it was only 
right he should. But as Kathleen spoke, telling 
first the true story of the man’s life, and then, full 
of indignation, had denounced him and his father 
for neglect of their duty, a feeling of shame took 
possession of him, and he turned away. But he 
could do nothing, he reflected bitterly. Mr. Dean 
and his agent managed the estate between them. 
He was not to blame. It w T as absurd to speak so 
to him. Then suddenly he felt a sharp twinge of 
remorse, as he remembered how utterly careless he 
had been, and how little attention he had given to 
the real condition of these poor tenants. 

Kathleen, who knew his character well, guessed 


14 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


what was passing in his mind, and regretting that 
she had spoken so harshly, approached him and laid 
her hand upon his arm. 

“ Lionel,” she said, and her voice was very low 
and sweet, “ I am sorry if I have annoyed you. 
But believe me, our people are not what they are 
represented. You are in a difficult position, I know. 
Your father would resent any interference at first, 
but could you not, quietly, gradually, find out the 
truth about these unhappy creatures and use your 
influence in softening him a little towards them ? 
It would be a noble work and God would bless 
you for it.” 

“ You speak foolishly—like a child,” cried Lionel, 
hotly. “ It is not my business. I will not inter¬ 
fere. You see the success I had to-day.” 

“ Yes: but that was because you did not care; 
you did not feel; you believed what you were told; 
you did not know the truth. If you did you 
would have more power and—I am disappointed, 
Lionel—bitterly disappointed.” And covering her 
face with her hands the girl turned away with a sob. v 

“ Kathleen, do not speak so. There is nothing 
I would not do for you. But indeed in this I am 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


15 


powerless. Go to my father yourself. You will 
see how determined he is.” 

Kathleen looked up quickly. A look of terror 
shot across her face. Then she pressed her lips 
tightly together, and the color deepened in her cheek. 

“ It is a good thought,” she said firmly. “ I will 
act upon it. Pat shall not go out of his home 
without an effort being made to save him. To-mor¬ 
row morning I shall see your father myself. Good¬ 
bye.” And she went quickly away from him, 
down the hill. Lionel watched her retreating figure, 
a softened light in his eyes. 

“ Kathleen Mavourneen, you have a tender little 
heart. But alas! I am afraid you go on a useless 
errand.” 

Then mounting his horse he galloped off after 
his friends. 


CHAPTER II. 


Kathleen awoke next morning with a heavy 
load at her heart. Her sleep had been broken, her 
dreams troubled. For the sake of Pat O’Connor, 
his wife and children, she had resolved to go up to 
the Wood House and implore Mr. Dean to be merci¬ 
ful. But the thought of doing so terrified her. And 
as she lay tossing from side to side in the lonely 
darkness of the night, and pictured the stern face 
and cold manner of Lionel’s father, she felt that she 
could not go to him; that such an ordeal was more 
than she could bear, and that after all it would 
probably be useless, indeed, it might even do more 
harm than good; and she decided to spare herself, 
and not go. But then, she reflected, she might be 
successful—she might move the man, and soften his 
heart towards Pat and his unhappy family. There 
was always a chance of that. So at last, she dropped 
16 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


17 


off to sleep hoping and praying that she might have 
courage to do what was right. 

Long before daylight Kathleen awoke, and dress¬ 
ing quickly, stole away down the mountain-side, 
along the wet shining sauds to the lone barn-like 
structure that served as the chapel, in which the 
poor peasants worshipped God with all the fervor 
of their simple, loving hearts. Mass was just begin¬ 
ning as the girl entered, and falling upon her knees 
in a quiet corner, she implored our Lord to give 
her the strength and courage necessary for the 
performance of her disagreeable task. 

At breakfast she looked calm, though pale. She 
felt very brave, and was able to tell her mother of 
her intended expedition without a quiver in her 
voice. 

Mrs. Burke was a refined, gentle woman of some 
forty-five years. She was a distant cousin of the 
late Mrs. Dean, and had lived with her for many 
years as a companion. She was pretty and well 
educated and was happy enough in her cousin’s 
home. But still she was only a dependent, with 
little hope of ever becoming anything else. So 
when handsome Tom Burke, with his rolling brogue, 


18 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


and kind good-natured manner, came to the Wood 
House and asked her hand in marriage, the girl 
gladly consented, and after a short engagement 
became his wife. The Deans were shocked at the 
match. Not because Tom was a Catholic, for Lucy 
also belonged to the true faith—but for the simple 
reason that he was only a farmer, a tenant at will 
of the great landlord of the place, Mr. Dean himself. 
Still Tom was well-to-do. His father had been to 
America, had there amassed a considerable sum of 
money, and returning home to Donegal had taken 
a large farm, and built upon it a handsome, com¬ 
fortable house, in which he had lived happily for 
some years, and on dying had left it to his son Tom. 
So, after the Deans had recovered from their first 
astonishment at the news, that even a lowly and 
distant connection of their great family was willing 
to stoop to marry an Irish farmer, they became 
gradually reconciled to the idea, and gentle Lucy 
Grey, became Tom Burke’s wife without further 
opposition. During Mrs. Dean’s life, Lucy, her 
husband and child were frequent guests at the 
Wood House; but after her death, which occurred 
nearly twelve years before this story begins, they 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


19 


seldom went there, and there was but little inter¬ 
course between the two houses. The Deans had 
one son, Lionel; the Burkes, one daughter, Kathleen, 
and between the pretty, merry little maiden with 
the earnest eyes, and the big boy nearly six years 
her senior, there was a close friendship, with which 
so far, no one had ever tried to interfere. But the 
heads of the families rarely met, and when they did, 
were cold and reserved in their manner and bearing 
towards each other. And this was caused by no 
fault of poor Burke’s, but by the landlord’s greed. 
Anxious to make his home comfortable, his wife 
and child happy, Tom improved his farm, decorated 
his house, ornamented his pleasure grounds, and the 
result was, that his rent was raised to what he and 
everyone around considered an exorbitant one. Full 
of indignation, Tom remonstrated—but in vaia. 
If he would not pay—why he could go. There 
were many eager to take the farm. And looking 
round at his home that he loved so well, Tom felt 
he could not leave it. So he paid the increased 
rent, and remained Mr. Dean’s tenant. But after 
this, the two men rarely spoke, all friendship was 
at an end between them. For fifteen long years 


20 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


Tom Burke continued to work his farm, paying 
punctually the money demanded by this grasping 
landlord; and then he died. 

“ Make what you can out of the land, Lucy, but 
do not improve,” was his last advice to his wife. 
“ Save what you can against a rainy day. For if 
ever you are in trouble Norman Dean will be a 
cruel master. He would squeeze out your last 
farthing, and then cast you forth to die. God help 
you, dearest, I can do nothing for you now.” 

After her husband’s death, Mrs. Burke enjoyed 
several prosperous years. The farm was in excellent 
condition, and she was able to put money in the 
bank, and educate her daughter as a lady. Then 
came a succession of wet summers, failure of crops, 
and loss of cattle by disease. And at the time our 
story opens the little savings were much diminished, 
and though not owing a penny of rent, the brave 
woman and her child were feeling the pinch of 
poverty in more ways than one. Still they were 
better off than their neighbours, and their kind 
hearts were sore as, day after day, they saw whole 
families thrown out of their once happy homes, to 
die of starvation amongst the lonely mountains. 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


21 


“My darling,” said Mrs. Burke, as Kathleen 
unfolded her plans to her, “do you think there is 
much use in going to the Wood House? If Lionel 
failed with his father, how can you hope to suc¬ 
ceed ? ” 

“Lionel was not in earnest; I am,” answered the 
girl. “ He does not believe in poor Pat. I do. 
Therefore, mother dear, my words may perhaps 
have more effect than his.” 

“ Perhaps. But, Kathleen, be careful. Do not 
anger Mr. Dean, pet. He is our landlord, too, 
remember. We are only tenants at will.” 

Kathleen flushed. She looked anxiously at her 
mother. 

“But we are not in his power? You do not 
owe any rent?” 

Mrs. Burke raised her eves reverentlv to Heaven. 

“Glory be to God, no. I am thankful, deeply 
thankful, I have paid every penny. But these are 
hard times, dearest. I could not pay more than I do, 
and it would kill me, Kathleen, to leave my home.” 

Kathleen put her arms round her mother’s neck, 
and drawing her head upon her bosom, kissed her 
tenderly. 


22 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“You shall never be asked to do that, dearest. 
Even if the very worst were to happen, and 
Mr. Dean threaten to turn us out, Lionel would 
not allow him to do so. I am not uneasy, 
mother.” 

Mrs. Burke sighed and looked curiously at her 
daughter. 

“ Why do you pin your faith on Lionel ? He has 
failed you in this affair of Pat O’Connor. He 
seems quite indifferent as to what occurs upon the 
estate.” 

“ Yes; at present I fear he is. But,” the color 
deepened slightly in the girl’s cheek, “ there is good, 
much good, in Lionel, mother. And were he once 
roused—” 

“Well, if the things that are going on around 
him now, do not do that, Mavourneen, I don’t know 
what will. The poverty and sufferings are terrible. 
Truly, the patience of the people is wonderful. 
God alone can give them the strength and resignation 
that they show in the midst of such trouble. Their 
faith in His goodness is beautiful, and very touch- 

• t> 

ing. 

“ Yes, so it is. But, oh! mother, it makes me 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


23 


angry. My blood boils with indignation when I 
see those sufferings, and think how easily they 
could be prevented. Would that I were a landlord, 
with a large estate, and money to spend. What a 
happy place it would become. My tenants should 
have comfortable homes, nice little farms and patches 
of grazing land for their cows. The children should 
be well and warmly clad. Their school-rooms 
should be large and airy, and oh ! the treats I’d 
give them. Why there would not be a sick or 
sorry person upon the property.” 

Mrs. Burke smiled, and caressed her daughter’s 
hand, which still lay upon her shoulder. 

“ My darling, your picture is, I fear, utopian, 
and even had you the means, impossible to realize. 
However, between the present state of affairs, and 
your happy dreams, there is a wide—a terrible 
difference. But what are you going to ask Mr. 
Dean to do for Pat O’Connor?” 

“ Not much. Merely to allow him to stay in this 
wretched shed that he has built for himself until 
the spring, when Father Lavens hopes to have 
gathered together enough money to send him and 
his little family to America.” 


24 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ He can hardly refuse that,” said Mrs. Burke, 
musingly, “and yet—if Norman Dean has made up 
his mind, it will be hard to move him. But go, 
dearest, on your errand of mercy. God bless and 
prosper you. I must go out now, and look after 
my men.” 


CHAPTER III. 


As Kathleen passes through the village, she is 
greeted with smiles and bows, and “ God save you 
kindly, Miss,” from everyone she meets. The 
children, in scanty rags, stop their games, in front 
of the squalid cabins, to pull their fore-locks, or 
make their little curtseys as they see her coming 
towards them. For dearly do they all love this 
beautiful girl, who, they know well, has a strong 
affection and sympathy for them and theirs. She 
is not rich, has not much in her power; but a 
kind word, a smile of recognition, a sign that you 
think him worthy of consideration and respect, 
will do more to win the heart of the poor Celt, 
than any quantity of the good things of this world, 
doled out to him in charity. And in every look 
and word, Kathleen shows the deep love she feels 
for these suffering people. Along the way she 

25 


26 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


stops continually, to ask news of a sick child, a 
bed-ridden mother, or a dying father. She knows 
all their troubles, and takes an interest in everything. 

At last, she leaves the village behind, and having 
walked for some distance along the wide sands, she 
rests a while on the top of a slope over Downing's 
Bay, which is a dark, calm pool, deep blue in the 
shadow of the mountains; a charming spot, pic¬ 
turesque and beautiful amid that bleak scenery. 
For here, the hills are soft and green, the trees 
large and well-grown. And nestling comfortably 
in a wide plantation suggestive of lordly wealth 
and ease, lies the Wood House, the home of Nor¬ 
man Dean, one of the wealthiest men in Ireland. 

“ How strange it is to see that splendid mansion 
here,” thought Kathleen. “It is hard to believe 
that so much wealth, such unbounded riches, could 
dwell side by side with such dire poverty, misery 
and want. Surely, the master of all this need not 
be so eager to gather up the hard-earned pounds of 
the people, or so anxious to turn out those who 
cannot pay their rent. Mr. Dean, like Lionel, does 
not understand, or he would not—he could not be 
so hard.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


27 


So thinks Kathleen, as she gazes upon that 
beautiful house, whose walls of solid granite shine 
and sparkle in the rays of the wintry sun. And so 
she still thinks when she is shown into the library 
of the Wood House, and Mr. Dean shakes her by 
the hand, kindly smiles upon her, and bids her take 
a chair. 

He is a tall, well-made man, with handsome 
clean-cut features, and hair that is almost grey. 
He reminds one strongly of Lionel. But whilst his 
son’s eyes are large, blue and clear, looking straight 
out with an honest fearless look, Mr. Dean’s are 
small and dark, with a fidgety, shifting expression 
that is not pleasant to behold. His mouth, too, is 
hard, and the massive jaw tells of a determination 
that will be difficult to move. 

But he is smiling now. And as Kathleen notes 
the cheerful ring in his voice as he greets her, she 
takes courage, thinking it augurs well for the sue- 
cess of her mission. 

“ Well, my little Kathleen, to what do I owe the 
honor of this visit?” he asks bowing. “But I 
beg your pardon. I must not call you little. Why, 
you are quite a stately young lady now. And what 


28 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


can I do for you? nothing wrong with your mother 
I hone? the farm is doing well. She makes an 
excellent tenant.” 

“ My mother is well, thank you. And so— 
but oh!” blushing and trembling, “it is not for 
myself I am here, Mr. Dean, but for poor Pat 
O’Connor. Will you—say you will allow him 
to stay in the hut he has built on his old farm, 
until the spring. His children are delicate, his 
wife is weak and ill. Pray let them stay, and God 
will bless you.” 

As Kathleen spoke, Mr. Dean’s face underwent 
a curious change. The smile quickly faded; the 
lines about his mouth became hardened; his lips 
were firmly set, and his eyes shone with a cold 
hard light. 

“ To that request, I reply emphatically, no;” he 
answered sharply. “ Pat O’Connor must leave his 
farm at once, aud forever. I told Lionel so, 
yesterday.” 

“ But Lionel did not explain—did not tell you 
all,” she insisted earnestly. “He did not say, 
that he wanted to stay only until the spring, when 
Father Lavens will be able to send him and his 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


29 


children to America. If you turn them out now, 
they may die of starvation.” 

“ That is not my affair. Pat O’Connor has no 
right to be where he is. He was legally evicted 
from his holding. The land is mine, Miss Burke. 
Surely, I can do what I like with my own property. 
So long as that man remains in that hut, no one 
will take the farm, and that would be a loss, a 
distinct loss to me.” 

Kathleen’s eyes wandered round the handsome 
library with its wealth of pictures, its richly carved 
cabinets, its marble busts, its valuable books, its 
warm velvet hangings, and soft thick carpet; and 
then before her she seemed to see the interior of 
Pat O’Connor’s cabin, with its solitary stool, its 
broken table, and cracked iron pot. 

“And yet he was happy there—happier than 
this man in the midst of all his luxury,” she 
thought. “ Poor Pat you ask for little—and that 
little is denied you.” 

Then as she looked at Mr. Dean, and noting how 
well-fed and well-clad he was, compared him with the 
thin emaciated peasant, and his starving children, a 
great lump rose in her throat, and she burst into tears. 


30 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“Come, come, you must not be so sensitive,” 
remarked Mr. Dean, looking annoyed. “It is 
absurd to feel so much for these people. Their own 
lazy habits cause all their sufferings. Let Pat 
go and work. It will do him good. It is quite 
ridiculous the way these Irish cling to the land. 
Idle, good-for-nothing—” 

Kathleen started to her feet, her hands trembling, 
her dark eyes flashing angrily. 

“Mr. Dean,” she cried—her young vibrating 
voice full of scorn—“You cannot believe what you 
say, it is impossible. This is a lie that has been 
repeated so often by you landlords, that the world has 
come to believe you. Our people are not idle, except 
when they are forced to be so. And you know that 
well. What are they to do when the land is taken 
from them? Where can they find work? Will 
you give it to them ? ” 

“ My dear young lady, your language is violent. 
However, I forgive you on account of your extreme 
youth. But allow me to say that you talk a great 
deal of nonsense. How can I provide work for 
the whole country-side? These men must look for 
it themselves. Where there’s a will there’s a way, 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


31 


remember. And now pray let us change the subject. 
Have you been riding lately ? ” 

“ No. I have sold my horse,” she answered 
shortly. “ But tell me—must Pat really go ? ” 

“ Certainly, and the sooner the better. If he does 
not leave the cabin quietly, he shall be forced out.” 

“ Then I have no more to say. May God for¬ 
give you, Mr. Dean,” she said in a choking voice. 
u Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye. And pray do not take this matter to 
heart. That fellow is not worth a sigh. Remember 
me to your mother.” And he held out his hand. 

But the girl did not appear to notice it, and 
merely bowing her head, walked slowly from the 
room. As the one door closed upon Kathleen, 
Lionel opened another, at the opposite side of the 
room, and walked in. 

“ What Niobe have you had with you this 
morning, father ? ” he asked carelessly. “ I fancied 
I heard the sound of weeping as I passed down the 
corridor. Why ”—going to the window and catch¬ 
ing sight of the retreating figure—“ it’s Kathleen 
Burke—Kathleen Mavourneen. And I declare, 
she is still in tears.” 


32 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


And paying no attention to his father’s repeated 
calls, he left the house and hurried along: the avenue 
after the young girl. 

As his son disappeared Mr. Dean sank back in 
his chair, and drummed impatiently with his fingers 
upon the table. There was an angry frown upon 
his brow, a cruel smile upon his lips. 

“ A liar! She dared to insinuate that she thought 
me a liar. A most dangerous, impertinent girl. 
And Lionel—well, she is pretty, beautiful, I may 
say. The boy is young and perhaps susceptible. 
I must watch, and if I find any signs of—I must 
sweep her from his path. The mother is but a 
tenant at will, and if I find the smallest trace of 
what I fear, they shall go—mother and daughter. 
Dunmore shall have a new tenant.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Hearing the sound of footsteps behind her, 
Kathleen hurried on, wishing if possible, to escape 
unnoticed from the grounds of the Wood House. 
But Lionel was quicker than she, and very soon he 
came up, panting and breathless, to her side. 

“ You are swifter than Atalanta, and would easily 
have beaten that damsel and secured the prize,” he 
said, laughing. “ But surely, Kathleen, you do not 
wish to run away from me, your old friend and 
companion ? ” 

Kathleen raised her beautiful eyes, heavy with 
tears, to his. Then meeting his glance full of 
anxious inquiry, she blushed deeply, her eye-lids 
drooped, and she answered sadly : 

“No. And yet after to-day, I fear our friend¬ 
ship must be at an end.” 

“ You are not in earnest ? ” he questioned gravely. 

3 33 


34 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ Our friendship is not a thing of yesterday, Kath¬ 
leen. It would take much—in fact, there is nothing 
that I can imagine that could ever put an end to it.” 

“I have angered your father,” she said, in a low 
voice. “ He told me he forgave me, but I feel he 
has not—not really—he spoke harshly, cruelly, 
of Pat O’Connor, and all our people about—I— 
I lost my temper—and so—” 

“ You told him what you thought of him and his 
class? And I must say,” smiling, “you are very 
hard upon us all. But cheer up, my little friend ; 
you are young and enthusiastic. Time and experi¬ 
ence will doubtless change you. My father will 
only laugh at your plain speaking. He will not 
bear you a grudge. And as for me, I am quite 
accustomed to your hard knocks and long lectures 
about my duty, etc.” 

Kathleen smiled. “ Yes, I do preach sometimes. 
But,” sighing, “ I am afraid I do no good. My 
temper is so hot, that when I feel much, I get 
excited, and then I invariably say the wrong thing. 
If I could only keep cool, my words would have 
more weight, and then even you, sir, might occa¬ 
sionally listen to me.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


35 


u Listen !” he cried. “ Am I not always listen¬ 
ing? You have great influence over me, Kathleen. 
But you must not ask me to do the impossible.’’ 

“ I ? Oh, no ! That is not likely.” 

“ Well, you have done so already, in this case of 
Pat O’Connor. Where his tenants are concerned, 
my father is as impossible to move as that moun¬ 
tain. But after all, I cannot see that he is so very 
hard upon them. It is not pleasant, even you must 
allow, not to be able to get the money that one has 
a right to. If a man cannot pay his rent, he ought 
to go. However, we are getting on dangerous 
ground again.” 

“Yes,” she said sadly, “very, since we do not 
agree upon the subject. But oh ! Lionel,” clasping 
her hands and looking up earnestly into his face, 
“ if only something would happen to touch your 
heart. If only you could be persuaded to look 
into the real state of things on your father’s estate, 
you would soon see as I see, and grieve for our. 
people.” 

“ My heart is not as hard as you think, my little 
enthusiast. I am sorry for this poor Pat O’Connor, 
and here is a five-pound note. It is my contribution 


36 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


towards sending him and his family to America. 
But we must say no more about him for the present, 
and perhaps my father may leave him where he is 
until we can manage to send him away. I’ll speak 
to the agent about it to-night. He might put in a 
good word for the poor beggar.” 

Kathleen’s eyes shone with joy, and a brilliant 
smile lit up her sweet face. 

“ Thank you, Lionel,” she cried rapturously. 
“God will bless you for this. I will consult 
.Father Lavens, and see how much money he has.” 

“Do. And who knows, perhaps, we may be 
able to ship the poor things off at once. However, 
I am happy to have brought a smile to your lips. 
I wish you were not so sensitive, Kathleen, for in 
this rough world of ours, such tenderness of heart 
will cause you much pain and suffering.” 

“ I am not afraid,” she answered gaily, as she 
folded the note, and put it carefully away in her 
purse. “ I am strong and healthy—and have little 
to fear. My dear mother takes such care of me. 
And were it not—” 

She broke off abruptly; her face grew white as 
death, a look of anguish came into her eyes, and 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


37 


clinging to Lionel’s arm, she pointed towards the 
sand, along the side of the winding bay. 

“ What is it? what is wrong?” cried Lionel. 
Then, as he looked towards the spot she indicated, 
a cry of horror broke from his lips, and he gazed 
spell-bound at the strange spectacle before him. 

Suddenly, below them, a dense smoke arose, then 
high into the air sprang flame after flame, fanned 
and increased by the wind which was blowing in 
strongly from the sea. Wild shrieks soon rent the 
air; and a number of men, women and children ran 
screaming towards the fire. For a few moments 
there was a confused murmur of tongues, a sound 
of wailing and lamentation, then all was over. The 
flames died down, and nothing remained but a few 
smouldering ashes. 

“It is Pat O’Connor’s hut,” whispered Kathleen. 
“ The poor souls are now without a home. OH, 
Lionel, how can it have happened ? ” 

“ By accident, I suppose,” he answered. “ But stay 
here, I will go and inquire.” And he ran quickly 
down the rough uneven road that led to the sea. 

Kathleen’s heart was sore within her. This burn¬ 
ing of the wretched hovel was an unexpected blow. 


38 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


And as she watched Lionel disappear down the 
mountain, she began to wonder what was to be done 
for this unhappy family, and where they would be able 
to find a home for them, this bitterly cold weather. 

“ It is a most unfortunate accident,” she mur¬ 
mured, “ and brings matters to a crisis at once. It 
will save Mr. Dean the trouble of evicting Pat and 
the children, poor things. I wonder if anyone is 
hurt? I trust not. But I cannot wait until Lionel 
returns, I must know the worst as soon as possible.” 
And she started off towards the scene of the disaster. 

As she neared the foot of the hill, she saw that 
a considerable crowd had gathered. The women 
had run out from their cabins, and the men had 
left their work in the fields, wildly excited by the 
sight of the conflagration. 

As Kathleen approached the edge of the crowd, 
she saw Father Lavens, the much-beloved parish 
priest standing amongst the people, and above the 
noise, she could hear his voice raised in tones of 
expostulation and entreaty. 

“Go back now, to your work, in the name of 
God,” he said. “There is nothing more to be 
done. Pat and his family must come to my house 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


39 


for the present. Try not to murmur or complain. 
We must take this fresh affliction as from the hand 
of God. Let us bear it meekly and patiently, lest 
greater evils befall us. Disperse now, and may the 
Almighty bless you.” 

The people bowed their heads, and slowly did 
his bidding. Father Lavens watched them anx¬ 
iously for a few moments; then seeing Kathleen on 
the road, he turned away, and went to meet her 
with outstretched hands. 

“My child,” he said, “this is no place for you; 
come back to Dunmore. There is no one hurt, 
thank God, they all escaped quite easily. But this 
act of cruelty has roused the angry passions of those 
poor fellows. Do not speak to any of them to-day ; 
they are excited and sore at what has happened, and 
it is hard to blame them.” 

“But, surely, it was an accident? it was no¬ 
body’s fault.” 

“ Alas, no, dear child, it was no accident. Would 
to God that it had been. It is only a cruel way of 
getting rid of an obnoxious tenant. The little hut 
was burned down by the express orders of our land¬ 
lord, Mr. Korman Dean.” 


CHAPTER V. 


It is May. And away amongst the wilds of 
Donegal, the weather is mild and genial. The 
hardships of winter are at an end; and as the people 
feel the soft Spring rain, and warm sunshine, they 
raise their heads, and give fervent thanks to God. 

During the dreary days of January and March, 
when fierce storms of wind and rain swept down 
the mountain passes, and the air was damp and 
bitterly cold, families were evicted right and left, 
cast adrift by their cruel landlord to seek food and 
shelter where they could. What became of them 
mattered little to him. He had a right to drive 
them off his land, and turn it into pasture if he 
chose. The land upheld him and helped him to 
get rid of these worthless creatures. He had no 
public opinion to fear, that is, none that he valued. 
The world at large knew nothing of what was 
40 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


41 


passing in this far-off country, and Mr. Dean never 
stayed his hand from any feeling of sympathy with 
the poor suffering tenants. So evictions went on 
apace.- All signs of human habitation were fast 
disappearing; and in every cabin there was sorrow; 
every family mourned some departed friends. 

But now, as the spring came round, giving 
promise of a fine summer and a good harvest, past 
troubles were partly forgotten, and hope sprang up 
in the hearts of those, who had been fortunate 
enough to escape the evictor’s hand, and remain 
upon their farms. And of all the people upon the 
estate, the inmates of Dun more were the most 
happy and hopeful. Mrs. Burke had been weak 
and ailing during the winter months; but she was 
much better since the wind had changed, and the 
sun warmer. The work of the farm was going on 
well. The crops already sown, seemed flourishing; 
and the little that remained to be done, would be 
finished in good time. Everything about the farm 
was in order. The industrious widow, as Mr. Dean 
had said, was an excellent tenant. 

And as Kathleen went about her household 
duties, or looked after her dairy and poultry, her 


42 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


heart was light, and she sang snatches of bright 
songs, or laughed merrily at old Biddy’s wise say¬ 
ings and curiously quaint remarks. For the girl 
was happy indeed; happier than she had been for 
years. Why she felt so, she could not have told 
you. She had always loved her home. The wild, 
bleak beauty of the country had never been any¬ 
thing but charming in her eyes. But now every¬ 
thing was more beautiful, more beloved than before. 
Never had the mountains looked so grand; never 
had the shifting mist-wreaths that draped their 
tops seemed so graceful or fantastic; never had the 
rugged peaks made such a picturesque framework 
against the arching skv. 

On the day that poor Pat O’Connor’s wretched 
hut had been burned over his head, and he and his 
wife and children cast out upon the road-side, 
Kathleen had suffered intensely. But thanks to 
Lionel’s generosity, and Father Lavens’ exertions, 
the little family had been sent off immediately to 
America, where they were met and looked after by 
a good Irish priest, who had the welfare of his 
emigrating countrymen much at heart. Pat was 
hard-working; and news soon came that he was 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


43 


doing well. Lionel’s kindness on this occasion 
gave Kathleen great pleasure. He was indignant 
at the cruel manner in which the eviction had been 
carried out, and although he said little upon the 
subject the girl saw that he was touched. So she 
wisely left him alone. This episode had made him 
think. He was no longer so hard in his wav of 
speaking of the peasants. He began to acknowledge 
the hardships of their lives, the uncertainty of their 
position, and as Kathleen noted this growing change 
in him, her heart was full of hope and happiness. 

“ Lionel will be landlord here in the future, 
mother,” she said one day to Mrs. Burke. “ And 
please God, he will be very different from his father. 
From this hour my first prayer, the intention for 
which I will offer many prayers to our Lord—to the 
Immaculate Heart of Mary, will be that Lionel 
may really see things as they are and that he may 
have grace to become a true and faithful steward 
over the unhappy people on this estate.” 

“ God grant your prayers may be answered, 
dearest. For when I am gone, you will not find 
it easy to battle against a rent-raising landlord.” 

“ I was not thinking of myself, mother. Your 


44 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


life, please God, will be a long one. And we are of 
Lionel’s kin. Neither he nor his father is likely to 
be hard on us.” 

“ I would not trust Mr. Norman Dean, Kathleen. 
And I rejoice that I am not in a position to fear 
him much. So long as I pay my rent, I think he 
will surely leave me in peace.” 

“ I am certain he will. And since he forgot and 
forgave the way in which I spoke to him, that day, 
about Pat O’Connor, he cannot be so easily turned 
against us, mother. Lionel says he never alluded 
to the subject.” 

“ Well, dear, I would not like to speak to him in 
such a way again. He forgave you, I suppose, on 
account of your youth.” 

“Yes,” said Kathleen sighing. “So he told me. 
And now, mother I must go and make one of my 
lightest and best sponge cakes for tea. Lionel is 
coming to finish “ The Lady of the Lake.” I 
think we shall finish it this evening.” And she 
tripped off gaily to the kitchen. 

Mrs. Burke looked after her, with a half smiling, 
half anxious expression upon her pale delicate 
countenance. 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEN. 


45 


“ Lionels conversion is to be the object of your 
prayers, darling—the ambition of your life. Well, 
it is a noble thought. To bring him round to 
know and love his people i3 a work worthy of your 
loving, unselfish nature. But I do not much like 
your undertaking it for your own sake. There is 
much danger for your peace of mind in these con¬ 
stant meetings, and pleasant readings. Danger for 
your happiness, and perhaps for his. I wonder if 
Norman Dean knows how often his son is here. If 
he is aware of the fact, and does not prevent his 
coming, he is a less worldly man than I take him 
for. I might stop his visits by a word. But I 
will not. I cannot. For, Kathleen Mavourneen, 
I could not bear to see a cloud on your face.” 

So when evening closed in, the pretty parlor was 
ready, and all preparations were made for Kath¬ 
leen’s tea-party. On the table was the dainty pink 
and white china, and sparkling silver that had been 
gifts from some rich English relatives to Mrs. 
Burke upon her wedding day. Golden daffodils 
nestled amongst rich brown leaves in a large old- 
fashioned bowl. Rolls of butter; bread as white 
as snow; and a sponge cake, the lightest and mo3t 


46 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


delicious ever seen, were laid out for the delectation 
of the expected guest. All these dainties were 
prepared by the girl’s own fair hands. And no¬ 
where, Lionel was wont to declare, did he eat such 
delightful bread and butter as in the parlor at 
Dunmore. 

At the window sat Kathleen and her mother. 
Mrs. Burke was knitting, and as the needles flew 
swiftly through her fingers, her eyes rested lovingly 
upon her daughter. 

The girl had put on her best dress, a soft clinging 
robe of grey cashmere, with creamy lace frills at 
the neck and wrists, and a bunch of pink ribbons 
at her throat that seemed to have lent a slight tinge 
of their coloring to her generally pale skin. 

In her hands she held a piece of work ; and there 
was a pleasant smile on her lips, an amused look in 
her dark eyes, as she turned down the hem, and 
made ready to begin. 

“ Biddy is the queerest of mortals, mother,” she 
said, laughing. “She wanted right or -wrong to 
tell my fortune to-day, but I refused.” 

“Quite right, dearest, I do not like such non¬ 
sense.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


47 


“ If it were only a joke, it would not matter. 
But really, Biddy is too solemn over it.” 

“ Foolish old woman, as if she knew anything 
about such things. Fortune-telling is a superstitious 
practice, and not to be encouraged.” 

“ I quite agree with you, Mrs. Burke,” said Lionel, 
who entered the room at this moment. “ Of course 
you are talking of Biddy’s little propensity ? But 
fortunes, I must say, are not terrible to listen to.” 

“What? Have you listened to her?” cried 
Kathleen, as she took her place at the table. “ I 
am surprised.” 

“ I did not listen. But I was obliged to hear,” 
he answered, laughing. “ One day, I gave her 
half a crown, and she turned upon me and poured 
out a torrent of nonsense about money being 
left to me, a long journey, and a sweet lady. I 
was—but such rubbish is not worth repeating. 
How are the new calves getting on, Mrs. Burke?” 

Here, the conversation became strictly agricul¬ 
tural, and it is needless to follow into all the partic¬ 
ulars of the farm. 

But at last the tea came to an end. The pink 
and white china was carried away, and as the ladies 


48 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


returned to their needle-work, Lionel drew forth 
his book and began to read. 

The young man was an excellent reader. His 
voice was strong, yet sweet and sympathetic, and 
as Kathleen listened the work slipped from her 
fingers, and she leaned slightly forward, her eyes 
fixed dreamily upon Lionel’s face, unconscious of 
everything, but the beauty of the poem he was 
reading. 

Suddenly, a shadow fell across the floor. Mrs. 
Burke started, and Lionel looked up quickly from 
his book. 

“ Some one was standing at the window just now,” 
he said. “ It was a man, I think. I suppose he 
was envying our look of peaceful happiness.” 

“ It was a man, Lionel,” said Mrs. Burke. “And 
do you know I thought for a moment that it was 
your father.” 

“ No fear. He is too busy with his agent. He 
was so absorbed that he never even asked me where 
I was going, although, I had to go into the library, 
where he was, to get this book.” 

“Of course I must have been mistaken. I hope 
I was.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


49 


“ I don’t think you need care, mother dear. We 
are most respectably employed/’ said Kathleen 
smiling. “ Go on, Lionel. That part is lovely.” 

So Lionel cleared his voice, and resumed his 
reading. 

The evening darkened into night. And still the 
three friends sat on together, discussing the book 
they had been reading, enjoying the present happy 
time, without any forebodings of the troubles that 
were to come. 

As the clock struck ten, Lionel jumped up. 

“ How quickly the evening has passed,” he cried. 
“ I had no idea it was so late. My dear Mrs. 
Burke you should have turned me out long ago. 
But it has been delightful. We must have another 
meeting soon, Kathleen. I have another story of 
George Eliot’s to read to you. I am sure you will 
be charmed with it.” 

“I am sure I shall. ‘Silas Marner’ was per¬ 
fect,” replied Kathleen brightly. Mother and I— 
What is it, Biddy ? ” 

“ If you please, Mr. Lionel,” said the old servant, 
“ there’s a man from the Wood House brought 
this.” And she held out a letter. “He told me it 
4 


50 


KATHLEEN MAVOUHNEEN. 


was most perticlar. But sure, I kept it an* him 
waitin' a bit, for I would'nt disturb yer readin' for 
him nor the likes of him. An', ma'am dear," and 
her voice trembled as she turned to her mistress, 
“ he wants to spake to you. I've put him into your 
own little parlor, as he told me it was business." 

“ Quite right, Biddy. But I don't think he 
should trouble me about business at this hour of the 
night. However, I suppose I must see him. 
Good-night, Lionel. Many thanks for your beauti¬ 
ful reading. I have enjoyed it immensely." 

“Good-night, Mrs. Burke," he answered. “This 
note is from my father. And he says," glancing 
over the page, “ though sorry to disturb you, or 
interrupt the charming party that I saw gathered 
together in Mrs. Burke’s parlor." 

“ Then it was your father, who looked in at the 
window?" cried Mrs. Burke, her color fading. “ Is 
he angry, Lionel ? " 

“Angry?" answered the young man laughing. 
“ My dear Mrs. Burke, why should he be ? But 
listen. He wishes me to go home at once, as I am 
to start for England, to-morrow morning early, on 
important business. I am very sorry. It will 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


51 


interrupt our readings. However, it can’t be 
helped, and we’ll enjoy them all the more when we 
come back to them. Good-bye, Kathleen Mavour- 
neen. Good-bye, Mrs. Burke.” And shaking his 
friends warmly by the hand, Lionel left Dunmore, 
and mounting the horse that was waiting for him, 
rode home to the Wood House. 

“ There is trouble coming. My God give me 
strength to bear it,” murmured Mrs. Burke, and 
she left the parlor with a strange pain at her heart. 

As the door closed upon her mother, Kathleen 
raised the window, and gazed out into the night. 
It was bright and clear, although the moon was not 
visible, and hardly a cloud marred the beauty of 
the starry firmament. 

“ Thank God, there is no sign of a storm,” she 
thought. “And when Lionel crosses to England 
to-morrow, he will have a pleasant passage. I 
wonder what this sudden journey means? Well, if 
is not my affair. But oh, I wish he had not gone 
just now.” 

“ Miss Kathleen,” cried Biddy running in, in 
great agitation. “ Asthore machree, come quickly 
to the little parlor. Sure yer poor mother must 


52 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


have had bad news. God help her. For she’s 
ill—an’ dyin’—an’—” 

Kathleen waited to hear no more. But turning 
from the window, sped quickly down the passage to 
her mother’s room. 

In an arm-chair, her face white as marble, a look 
of unutterable woe in her poor frightened eyes, lay 
Mrs. Burke. At the sight of her daughter she tried 
to speak, and raised her hands with a gesture of 
horror. But the words refused to come, and she 
sank back with a groan. 

: Terrified, Kathleen flung herself on her knees, 
beside the chair, weeping bitterly. 

“ Mother, mother—what is it ? What has made 
you ill ? 

“ My darling,” gasped the unhappy woman, at 
last. “ The blow has fallen—you—I—shall soon be 
without home or shelter. Mr. Norman Dean—has 
—served me—with a notice—to quit.” 


CHAPTER YI. 


Yes; the blow had fallen. The blow that of 
late the poor widow had dreaded, and yet felt she 
had no right to expect. She had been a good tenant. 
Her husband, and his father before him, had ex¬ 
pended much time and money upon the land, and 
had built the pretty house, Dunmore, in which they 
had lived and died. But now for a mere caprice, 
because their landlord considered that she and her 
daughter were in his way, because he was alarmed 
at Lionel’s friendship for Kathleen, they must go. 
This hard-hearted tyrant was resolved to exercise 
his right and sweep them from his path. 

This determination of Mr. Dean’s was not, as we 
know, arrived at hastily, but was the result of 
much careful thought and consideration. Lionel, 
he had come to the conclusion, was in danger. The 
cause of that danger must be removed. And as he 

53 


54 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


knew his son would fight hard for his friends, he 
made up his mind to get him out of the way, before 
the notice of ejectment was served upon Mrs. Burke. 
So the young man was ordered off to England, and 
business was manufactured to keep him absent, till 
the eviction should have taken place. 

Thus, innocent of what was going on, Lionel left 
Donegal and traveled to London. He was reluctant 
to go, but before long he found life in the metro¬ 
polis extremely pleasant. He had many friends; 
was asked out, and made much of on every side, 
and, as was natural to a man of his age and disposi¬ 
tion, enjoyed himself thoroughly. His father’s 
business occupied but a small portion of his time; 
but it progressed slowly. The lawyers would not 
be hurried, and until the matter was settled, he 
could not think of going home. So the weeks 
passed over, and in spite of himself he was obliged 
to remain in England. 

Meanwhile, the little family at Dunmore was in 
'a state of mind almost bordering on distraction. 
Where they were to go, and what they were to do, 
were questions that the poor mother and daughter 
asked themselves a hundred times a day, but could 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


55 


never answer in a satisfactory manner. Leave 
Dunmore they must; that was the decree of their 
landlord, and there was nothing for them to do, but 
to obey. 

Father Lavens w r ent to the Wood House and did 
all he could to move Mr. Dean and make him 
change his mind. But he was as hard as adamant. 
Go they must. Then anxious, at least, to get what 
he could for the widow and her child, the priest 
asked for compensation for all that had been done 
on the farm by the Burkes, father and son, he was 
laughed at, and ordered from the house. 

“ It is only what I expected,” replied Mrs. Burke, 
when Father Lavens told her what had happened. 
“ Norman Dean has neither heart nor feeling.” 

“Alas! I fear not. God forgive him for his 
cruelty. And now, my friend, we must look matters 
boldly in the face. What are you going to do?” 

“ Father Lavens,” she answered solemnly. “ God 
is very merciful to me. He is going to take me to 
Himself. My hours are numbered, and ere the 
time to quit this roof, where I have lived so long 
and happily, has arrived, my soul will have taken 
flight. I shall only leave Dunmore in my coffin.” 


56 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ How can you tell? You are weak and ill. 
But you have no disease.” 

“ You are mistaken there,” she said calmly. “ My 
heart has been affected for years. Had I been 
allowed to go on peacefully in my home, I might 
have lived to, perhaps, a ripe old age. But tins 
. shock, this cruel blow, has been my death warrant 
—any day—any hour God may call me to Himself.” 

“My poor friend,” said the priest, in a voice full 
of emotion. “ And does your daughter—does Kath¬ 
leen know ? ” 

“Yes. And,” sighing,“ what a brave unselfish child 
she is. Her heart is breaking at the thoughts of los¬ 
ing me—and leaving the home she loves—and yet she 
is always cheerful and talks hopefully of the future.” 

“So she may. Believe me, she will be happy 
yet. God will take care of her. She has been a 
good daughter, and has worked hard amongst the 
poor. She will have much to fight against, many 
troubles to endure, but she’ll have a noble reward— 
if not in this world, then certainly in the next. 
God bless her, she is a good, unselfish child.” 

The priest spoke feelingly, for he loved Kathleen 
with a father’s love. He knew her well; had given 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


57 


her her First Communion, and seen her con¬ 
firmed. And in all the country, he knew there was 
not a finer nature, or a more faithful, devoted heart, 
than that of the beautiful girl, who loved the poor 
peasants, and longed so ardently for their happiness. 
Her presence in the parish, he had always regarded 
as a blessing to himself and his people. Her 
example had done an incalculable amount of good ; 
and her ready kindness and sweetness of disposition 
had endeared her to all. A word from Kathleen 
was more powerful in the village, than a threat of 
punishment, or an offer of reward. Young and old, 
looked up to, and reverenced her, and in this they 
had all been encouraged by their parish priest. Her 
virtue had always been a source of happiness to him, 
and he was overcome with grief at the thoughts of 
the bitter tribulations through which she might 
have to pass. 

“ I fear my darling may have a thorny path to 
tread, Father,” said Mrs. Burke, after a slight pause. 
“ When I die, she must leave Donegal and go to 
London.” 

Father Lavens started, and looked at her in 
alarm. 


58 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“To London? My friend, you surely, would 
not send the girl to such a wilderness as London, 
alone—without means—” 

“ No, no. She shall go to friends. You remem¬ 
ber Tom’s sister, Lenora, who married George 
Selwood ? ” 

“Yes. A rich merchant, whom Tom, poor fellow, 
could never endure. He was a Protestant, too?” 

“ Yes. But he never interferes with his family, 
I believe. Well, Nora writes that Kathleen may 
go to her.” 

“ Humph ! And what does Kathleen say ? ” 

“ What can she say ? Beggars can’t be choosers. 
Poor child, she will probably have much to endure 
amongst these fine English cousins.” 

“Much. But don’t fret,” he said, anxious to 
reassure the unhappy mother. “She is a brave 
creature and will surely win their affection. God 
will take care of her. You may safely leave her in 
His hands.” 

Then bidding her good morning, he left the house. 

In the garden he met Kathleen. She had grown 
very thin of late. Her cheeks were pale, and there 
were dark rings under her eyes. 


KATHLEEN MAYOURNEEN. 


59 


“ Father Lavens,” she cried eagerly. “ You have 
been to the Wood House. Is there any news of 
Lionel ? ” 

“ None. He was not mentioned. But do not 
dream of any help from him, my child. He is a 
chip of the old block, and cares little for any one 
in distress.” 

Kathleen crimsoned over cheek and brow. Tears 
rushed to her eyes, and her lips trembled. 

“Oh, no,” she murmured, “do not say so. You 
—do—not know him—as I do.” 

Then turning away, she fled into the house. 

“ God save us! ” cried the priest in a tone of 
horror, as he watched her disappear. “ Was there 
danger for your happiness in that quarter, Mavour- 
neen ? Sure, then if so, sorry as I am to lose you, 
I thank the Almighty that He is taking you away 
—removing you to a new country, where you'll 
soon forget both Norman Dean, and his good-for- 
nothing son.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Time flew on apace, and as the day approached 
on which she and her daughter were to leave their 
home, Mrs. Burke grew weaker, her hold on life 
more uncertain. But Kathleen could not believe 
that her mother was. going to die, and spent many 
an hour thinking over their future plans, wonder¬ 
ing how they would contrive to live on the small 
sum of money they had in hand, until she could 
find work to do. 

“ Is not the postman late, Mavourneen ? ” asked 
Mrs. Burke, one bright summer’s morning. “ He 
must be late.” 

“ A little, dearest,” replied Kathleen, rising from 
her chair and leaning out of the window, in order 
that she might see, as far as possible, down the road 
to Dunfanaghy. a But I think I see him coming 
along.” 


60 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


61 


“ I am glad. There may be a letter to-day. I 
want to be certain, before I go, that your aunt Nora 
will receive you at once.” 

The girl looked anxiously at her mother. She 
was reclining in a long, deep easy chair, and as 
Kathleen’s eyes rested upon her, she noticed, with 
a thrill of pain, how white and worn she was look¬ 
ing, in the clear bright light of the morning. How 
hollow were her cheeks; how sharpened her fea¬ 
tures. What a sad, pathetic look there was in her 
sunken eyes. Was it her fancy ? Or had the dear 
face wasted rapidly during the past week ? Alas! 
alas! it was no fancy. And for the first time she 
realized that her mother’s strength was fast declin¬ 
ing ; that her end was perhaps very near. It was 
now the 16th of June, and in ten days from this, 
they must leave Dun more. Would God take this 
fragile creature to Himself ere then, or would she 
live to be carried forth from the shelter of her home 
in a dying condition? And the girl’s heart sank 
within her as she asked these questions, reflecting 
how bitter it would be for her in either event. To 
lose her mother would be terrible. But to see her 
suffer, as she knew she would, on being forced to 


62 


KATHLEEN MAVOUIiNEEN. 


say good-bye forever, to the one spot that she loved 
best on earth, seemed more painful still; and she 
almost prayed that the poor invalid might escape 
from this world before the fatal day came round. 
Yet, loving her mother as she did, she longed to 
keep her, and clung to the hope, that if the removal 
were once accomplished, she would gather fresh 
strength, and live for many years to come. 

“ Mother,” she whispered softly, as she bent over 
to draw her wraps more closely round her, for though 
it was summer Mrs. Burke was always chilly, “ do you 
not think it would be better, less painful for you, dear¬ 
est, if we were to leave Dunmore quietly to-day, or 
to-morrow ? Mrs. Donnelly will take us in for the 
present. It is useless waiting here till the end. Our 
things must be sold, and that will distress you.” 

Mrs. Burke laid a transparent hand upon her 
daughter’s head, and smoothed back the beautiful 
brown hair from the pure white brow. 

“ My darling,” her voice was low, but firm, 
" when God sends for me, I shall go. Not before.” 

“ But, mother, if—if—” Kathleen’s tears fell fast; 
sobs choked her; she could scarcely speak; “ the day 
comes—first. Think how terrible that will be.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEN. 


63 


“ It will be God’s will, dearest, and I shall bear 
the suffering as part of my Purgatory. But it will 
not be. I shall die in Dunmore, and you shall 
have to face the world alone.” 

“Oh, mother, what shall I do without you?” 
Kathleen flung her arms round her mother’s neck, 
and hid her face upon her bosom. 

For some moments Mrs. Burke made no reply. 
She pressed her child against her heart, in a close, 
loving embrace. Her lips moved as though in 
prayer, and her streaming eyes were raised to 
heaven. 

“ My darling,” she said presently, “ at first the 
thought of leaving you seemed more than I could 
bear. But now, I feel that it is best that I should 
go. Best for you, love, and far, far better for me. 
On earth I could only be a burden to you, weak 
and helpless as I am. In heaven ”—her eyes shone— 
“I can pray for you, and help you. It is God’s will 
that I should go. Pie will take care of you, Kath¬ 
leen. In His hands I leave you.” 

u Yes, mother.” And as the girl raised her head, 
and looked at the sweet face and fragile form of the 
dying woman, she felt a sudden gratitude to God, 


64 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


that He should be willing to take her to heaven, 
and save her from the hardship and misery which 
would surely await her in the wide, unknown world, 
which she would be obliged to face, if she lived to 
leave Dunmore. 

Mrs. Burke met the look of love and unselfish 
resignation in her child’s eyes, and a smile lit up 
her wasted features. 

“ My little girl will let me go ? ” she whispered. 
“ She will submit patiently to God’s will?” 

“Yes, mother, I see it all now. Pray for me 
that I may have strength to bear the parting.” 

“I will, love, I will.” 

Kathleen rose, pressed her lips long and lovingly 
to her mother’s brow, then quickly left the room. 

An hour later she came down-stairs, dressed to 
go out. She looked pale and sad. Her eyes were 
red with much weeping. 

On the hall-table were a couple of letters, and a 
small box. This she opened hastily, for the address 
was in Lionel’s writing. Within, nestling upon 
damp moss and maiden-hair fern, was a bunch of 
crimson roses. They were fresh and fragrant, and 
as Kathleen lifted them to her lips, they were wet 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


65 


with her falling tears. A slip of paper lay beneath, 
them, and on it was written : 

“ In a fortnight I return. What pleasant even¬ 
ings we shall have then. 

“ Your friend, 

“ Lionel.” 

“In a fortnight!” A cry escaped the girl. “Too 
late, too late. But now, I know the truth. Lionel 
is ignorant of what is happening. I was sure of it. 
But alas ! he will return to find us gone.” 

Unhappy and restless, heart-broken at the cer¬ 
tainty, that suddenly came upon her, that she should 
now never see Lionel again. Lionel, her one friend, 
of whom she had hoped and expected so much. 
Kathleen hurried out of the house, and leaving the 
pretty garden, with its bright flowers and shady 
trees, she wandered up the road that led to the 
mountains. 

The view as she goes high up is varied and pic¬ 
turesque, but she has no thoughts for such things 
to-day. Her heart is filled with a great sorrow, 
and on no side can she find comfort or hope. Wild, 
angry and rebellious are her feelings as she climbs 
5 


66 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


the hill-side, and at last sinks down exhausted 
amongst the heather. Her mother is dying. In 
her presence, under the influence of her holy words 
and sweet anxiety to be with God, Kathleen had been 
able to look and feel resigned. But here, alone, 
with the full knowledge of her utter desolation upon 
her, she feels despair and misery take possession of 
her. It is hard—too hard, she tells herself, that 
she should be robbed of all that is most dear to her 
in life. Her mother, her home, Lionel. All would 
be taken from her. Soon there would be no place 
for her in the world. No one would want her. 
There would be no one left to love her. 

The sun was shining brilliantly; and far out 
towards the horizon rose the dark gloomy outline 
of Horne Head. Far away lay the deep waters of 
the Atlantic, and crests of foam, like living things, 
flashed whitely, from time to time against the sky. 
A little lark sang high up in the heavens, and the 
beauty of his song moved the girl, and for a moment 
she forgot herself. 

“How immense is the power of God. How 
strange and wonderful are His ways. What care 

4 

He takes of His creatures. How grateful they 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


67 


should be for such love and tenderness,” she 
thought, “and yet I rebel against His holy will, 
refuse to bear the cross He lays upon me.” A 
shower of blinding tears hid the daylight from her 
eyes, and then suddenly she felt conscious of a swift 
change of feeling. Her pride and hardness of heart 
gave way, and were soon replaced by a sense of 
shame and contrition. 

“Oh, my God,” she cried earnestly, “give me 
patience and resignation. Have mercy upon me. 
Help me to bear my sorrows. Lift me out of my¬ 
self, and grant me grace to think only of others. 
Make me obedient and submissive to Thy will.” 

For some hours Kathleen sat alone upon the hill¬ 
side, praying fervently, struggling hard to bring her 
will and feelings into subjection. And at last, for 
such prayers are never in vain, a great calm took 
possession of her, and she was able to say from her 
heart: 

“ My God, Thy will be done. Do with me what 
Thou wilt.” 

The next evening she and Father Lavens were 
together in her mother’s room. The invalid had 
grown rapidly worse, and that morning had received 


68 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


all the last rites of the Church. She was fading 
fast away, happy in the thought that she would 
soon be with God. 

“Kathleen,” she whispered, “I am glad I re¬ 
ceived that letter from your aunt. You will go to 
her at once. Your influence and example will do 
much. Never be afraid of what anyone may say. 
Do what is right—no matter what it may cost you.” 

“ Always, mother, with the help of God,” replied 
Kathleen, tenderly kissing the pallid cheek. 

As morning dawned the dying woman turned 
upon her pillow. 

“ Pray, darling, pray. The light is fading.” 

The girl fell upon her knees, and Father Lavens 
drew forth his book, and in a voice full of emotion 
read the prayers for the dying. 

As he concluded Mrs. Burke opened her eyes; 
a sweet smile lit up the white face, and she mur¬ 
mured softly. 

“ Now dost Thou dismiss Thy servant, O 
Lord, in peace. My God! mercy. Mary—help. 
Jesus—” 

The Holy Name was faintly whispered. Her 
head sank a little on one side—her lips still moved, 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


69 


but the words were no longer audible. Then fol¬ 
lowed a few moments of awful stillness, broken 
only by short, labored breathing. 

“ God be merciful to her. May she rest in peace/’ 
said Father Lavens, reverently. Then taking Kath¬ 
leen gently by the hand, he led her away, telling 
her that she was motherless. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Long and dreary was Kathleen’s journey from 
Donegal to London. The death of her beloved 
mother, and her departure from her home, had well- 
nigh broken her heart. She was crushed with grief; 
and as she passed along the road from Dunmore to 
Derry, she shed bitter, blinding tears. 

The news of her going had been noised abroad, 
and as she went the people crowded after her to 
wish her “God speed.” Out of the cabins they 
rushed, with cries of affectionate farewell. Heads 
were uncovered; hands outstretched; and to each 
and everyone the girl spoke words of love and sor¬ 
row. In this simple child these poor people had 
found a faithful friend, and were grieved to see her 
go. She had so often soothed them in times of 
affliction, had been their champion when all hands 
were raised against them, that they had grown to 
70 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


71 


love her, and to look to her for comfort in their 
misfortunes. The thought that she was leaving the 
country, not of her own free will, but through the 
inexorable tyranny of her landlord, who was their 
oppressor also, increased their anguish a hundred¬ 
fold; and so they pressed around her. The women 
and children weeping ; the men wringing her hands, 
and wishing her good luck and prosperity. The 
scene was a touching one; but painful in the ex¬ 
treme. And much as she loved the poor peasants, 
the girl was relieved when it was over, and she was 
well started on her way to Derry. 

It was a trying, fatiguing day. And when at 
last, the train rushed into the big station at Euston, 
Kathleen gave a sigh of pleasure. She was in Lon¬ 
don. A 7 ery soon she would be at her journey’s 
end. 

Unaccustomed as she was to travelling, the poor 
girl felt utterly bewildered as she stepped out upon 
the busy platform. She was hustled about, pushed 
ruthlessly from side to side, and almost despaired 
of ever finding her trunk amidst the mass of lug¬ 
gage that was being tumbled pell-mell out of the 
van. But after much struggling and patient wait- 


72 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


ing, she succeeded in securing a porter, who shoul¬ 
dered her box and put it up on the top of a cab. 

“ Where to, miss ? ” 

Kathleen stared at him. She was so excited by 
the whirl of noise and bustle, that she scarcely real¬ 
ized what he was saying. But at last she produced 
a paper from her pocket and read her aunt’s address 
in Kensington, in a low, frightened voice. 

“All right.” The door banged. The porter 
shouted to the cabman, and the girl was soon rat¬ 
tling along the Euston road. 

“ How ugly and black everything is,” she thought, 
as she was driven through street after street of dingy - 
looking houses. “ And oh ! this crowd always mov¬ 
ing—it makes me giddy. And how heavy is the 
atmosphere. How different from the pure, fresh 
air of Donegal.” 

After what seemed an interminable drive, the cab 
entered a square, where the houses rose some four or 
five stories high, shutting out every prospect, except 
their own gloomy walls, and the little patch of black, 
dusty evergreens, which they surrounded. One or 
two of the trees were, however, freshly green; and 
on almost every window-sill there were boxes filled 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


73 


with growing plants of mignonette and large field 
daisies. 

“ Poor flowers, some of them look sadly parched,” 
thought Kathleen. “ Like me, they pine for fresh 
air. But, I suppose, I have reached the end of my 
journey. This must be Aunt Nora’s.” 

The cab stopped, and trembling with terror at the 
thoughts of facing her strange relatives, Kathleen 
got out. 

“ My God,” she murmured, as she rang the bell, 
“ help me to be brave. Help me to get on with 
these people. Oh, mother, would that you were 
with your child at this moment.” 

After a somewhat long delay, the door slowly 
opened, and an old woman put out her head. 

“You’re from Ireland?” she asked, eyeing Kath¬ 
leen from under a pair of bushy eyebrows. 

“Yes. I am from Ireland. I am Mrs. Sel- 
wood’s niece. She knows I am coming.” 

“Aye, aye. It’s all right; come in, come in.” 
And she called to the mail to carry up the girl’s 
luggage. 

“Can I see Mrs. Selwood?” asked Kathleen, 
nervously. “I’d like to see her at once.” 


74 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“Mrs. Selwood’s not in London. She an’ the 
young ladies is in Brighton.” 

“In Brighton? But—” 

“Oh, it won’t be for long. They often goes from 
a Saturday to Monday. Master Jaeky’s maid ’ll 
look after you. I’ll tell her you are here.” And 
going into the inner hall, she shouted up the back 
stairs. 

“ Rose.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ The niece has come. She’s waitin’ in the ’all.” 

“ Let her wait. I’m busy.” 

“ She’ll be here directly, miss,” said the woman, 
coming back to Kathleen. “ Won’t you sit down,” 
pointing to a hard, straight-backed seat of carved 
oak. “ The shutters is shut in the dining-room, and 
there’s no light in the library, or I’d ask you in 
there. We don’t open up any rooms we can help 
when the missis is away.” 

Kathleen sank upon the seat, and in the dim, 
gloomy hall, wept silently and unobserved. What 
an ending was this to her journey. What heartless 
treatment from her aunt, in whom she had hoped to 
find a second mother. 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


75 


“ But perhaps she could not help it,” she thought, 
ever ready to make excuses for others. “ She may 
have been obliged to go. I must be patient and 
brave.” 

“ Will you follow me, please? And I will show 
you to your room,” said a voice, and a tall, angular 
woman, dressed in black silk, with lace collar and 
cuffs, her hair done up elaborately in puffs and 
plaits, stood before the weary traveller, examining 
her with a critical eye. 

“Thank you,” replied Kathleen; and she rose 
with alacrity. 

“ This way, please.” And the maid led her up 
the thickly-carpeted stairs, past the drawing-rooms; 
Mrs. Selwood’s elegantly furnished bedroom and 
boudoir; her daughters’ dainty chambers, and down 
a narrow passage; then up a winding, ladder-like 
flight, covered with a shabby drugget, which led to 
the top of the house. 

“ This is your room,” said the woman, ushering 
the girl into a small, scantily furnished apartment. 
“ Would you like a little warm water?” 

The tone was not unkind, but it was familiar; 
and Kathleen felt that this stately person was not 


76 


KATHLEEN MAV< )URNEEN. 


inclined to treat her with much respect, evidently 
regarding her as a visitor of little consequence. 

“ Thank you. If it is not too much trouble,” 
she answered. “It would be pleasant after my 
journey.” 

“So I thought. You look dusty and tired,” and 
the woman rustled leisurely away. She soon re¬ 
turned, however, with a can of hot water, and fol¬ 
lowed by a boy with Kathleen’s trunk upon his 
shoulder. 

“ Put it there,” said the maid, in commanding 
tones. And when he had bumped it into a corner, 
and unfastened the straps, they both withdrew, and 
the girl was left alone. 

“ Oh ! what a welcome. What a change from my 
own dear home,” she cried, gazing round the room, 
and noting the sloping roof and narrow window, 
the untidy curtains and the faded carpet. “ IIow 
shall I breathe in such a place?” And flinging open 
the window, as high as it would go, she leaned for¬ 
ward, her arms upon the sill. But the air was 
heavy with the odors of the mews; the view of the 
slated roofs, and tall, black chimney-pots, was not 
a pretty one, and she drew back with a sigh. Her 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


77 


eyes filled with tears, and she sank down upon the 
end of the bed.. Then she blushed deeply, and a 
pang of remorse shot through her heart. 

“Is this being brave? Is this bearing my cross? 
How much better off am I, than many of our poor 
people, cast out of their homes without any place of 
refuge. My God, grant me patience and courage/’ 

Then she rose, brushed out her hair, bathed her 
face and hands; and taking off the dusty dress, in 
which she had travelled, took another from her 
trunk, and put it on. As she fastened the brooch 
at her collar, and stood wondering where she should 
go, and when she should get anything to eat, for 
she was beginning to feel very hungry, she was 
startled by hearing a voice in the next room, saying 
in querulous accents: 

“Well, has the wild Irish girl arrived?” 

“Hush, master Jicky, the walls are thin. Miss 
Burke has come. She is in her room.” 

“ Tell her to hurry. I want my tea. Does she 
look like a savage ? ” 

Kathleen could not hear the answer to this ques¬ 
tion ; but whatever it was, it was said with a laugh 
and a sneer, and the girl’s cheeks burned with indig- 


78 


KATHLEEN" MAVOURNEEN. 


nation. Presently someone knocked at her door, and 
the stately person in black silk looked in. 

“ If you are ready, will you come this way?” 

Kathleen was quite ready, so she followed the 
woman down the passage into another room, very 
like her own, though somewhat larger, and with a 
wide window looking out upon the square, instead 
of into the mews. Close to the table, in a capacious 
arm-chair, sat a boy of about nine or ten, with a 
thin, white face, and a mass of curly brown hair. 

As the girl entered the room, and stood beside 
him, her heavy black draperies falling softly round 
her tall, slender figure, her sweet eyes fixed upon 
him with a look of inquiry, an expression of sorrow 
and fatigue about the corners of her sensitive mouth, 
the child smiled kindly, and held out his hand. 

" Are you really Kathleen Burke ? ” 

11 Yes. And,” archly, “ I am the wild Irish girl 
you spoke about just now. Do I look like a sav¬ 
age ? ” 

The boy crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and 
turned away his head. 

“ I am so sorry,” he stammered. “ It was a 
shame. I—” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


79 


Kathleen laughed merrily. 

“ I am not offended. And now that you know 
my name, what is yours? Are you one of my 
cousins ? ” 

“Yes. I am Jacky Selwood. And it’s awfully 
good of you to—to forgive me.” 

“Not at all. It was only a joke. I am a wild 
Irish girl, fond of my mountain home, and hating 
dusty streets and high houses. And now, Jacky, 
we must be friends. May I kiss you ? ” 

Jacky made no reply; but turning suddenly, he 
flung his arms round her neck. Then frightened 
at what he had done, he drew back, murmuring: 
“ What a fool you must think me.” 

“Not at all. You are very kind. I don’t feel 
half so unhappy as I did. A little show of affec¬ 
tion is delightful when one is lonely.” 

“ I suppose it is,” gruffly. “ I don’t get much of 
it, I can tell you, and I am often—oh ! so often, 
lonely.” 

Kathleen looked at him compassionately; and 
as she noticed the crutches by his chair, the pale 
weariness of his face, and the utter dejection of his 
manner, she felt full of pity for him. Her own 


80 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


troubles seemed very small, compared to those of 
this unhappy child. 

“You shall not be lonely any more,” she said, 
touching his curly hair lightly with her hand. 
“My room is next door. We must keep each 
other company.” 

“Oh! you’ll be like the rest. Mother and 
Lina and Gwen. They don’t mean to be unkind. 
But—” sighing, “they are so busy. Dinners, balls, 
visits and teas—they haven’t a minute to spend with 
me. You’ll soon get drawn in. It seems so entic¬ 
ing, this whirl of gaiety and amusement.” 

“ It will not be so for me, Jacky,” answered 
Kathleen, then glancing sadly at her black dress. 
“My mother died a fortnight ago. It is not likely 
I should care to go to any kind of entertainment 
for a long, long time.” 

“ Did you love your mother much ?” 

“ Very much.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She 
was all I had to love, Jacky.” 

“ Then it was cruel that she should be taken,” he 
cried, vehemently. “Very cruel.” 

“ No, dear. She was glad to go. It was God’s 
will to take her; and I am thankful she went.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


81 


“ How odd. Are you a Catholic ?” 

“ Yes, thank God. And you, Jacky. Are not 
you a Catholic ?” 

“Oh! a sort of one. I was baptized, and all that. 
But nobody troubles much about religion in this 
house—they are too fond of fun.” 

“ Poor little boy,” murmured Kathleen, in a low 
voice. “ No wonder you find it hard to be patient. 
But, please God, I shall help you to better things.’ 
Then looking at him with a smile, she said aloud : 
“You and I must try to set a good example, Jaeky, 
and show them how happy people can be when they 
are real strong Catholics.” 

“ You may do that. I don’t know how.” 

“Will you let me teach you ? ” 

“ Certainly. But you’ll find- it a hopeless task. 
I’m so ill-tempered. No one will ever stay with 
me as governess. Rose is the only creature that 
can manage me. She know r s my ways and doesn’t 
mind.” 

“I shan’t mind either, I think. Shall we promise 
to be friends ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” he cried, eagerly. “ And I’ll 
try my best to be nice to you.” 

6 


82 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ Master Jacky,” said Rose, as she placed a dish 
upon the table, “ tea is ready.” 

“I hope there is something good?” he questioned. 
“ Something really good ? ” 

“ Cook is out. But Jane has done a chop for Miss 
Burke.” 

“ Chops are horrible dry things,” he said, im¬ 
patiently. “ What business has the cook to be 
out?” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Rose. 

“Well, you ought to know. It’s a shame—a 
horrid shame—when there’s a visitor, and—” 

“Hush, Jacky,” said Kathleen, cheerfully. 
“ Why, my dear, this is a delightful tea. Come 
now, don’t spoil my appetite by grumbling. Shall 
I sit at the head of the table, and dispense the good 
things?” 

“ Yes, do, please. And if you don’t mind 
chops—” 

“ I shall be very glad to get one, I assure you. 
I am extremely hungry. A good chop is not to be 
despised after a long journey.” 

And as Rose left the room, Kathleen seated her¬ 
self at the table, and having said grace in a low, 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


83 


reverend voice, she helped the boy to some toasted 
muffin, and began to pour out the tea. 

“ This is charming / 7 cried Jacky, presently. “ I 
never knew my room looked so nice. I hope mother 
and the girls will stay away for a good while. When 
they come back everything will be changed . 77 

A shadow flitted across Kathleen’s sweet face. 
She felt a growing dread of these gay, worldly peo¬ 
ple. Her aunt and cousins, she gathered from Jacky’s 
remarks, were mere butterflies of fashion. Between 
her and them, there could be little sympathy, and 
she trembled at the thoughts of meeting them. But 
wishing to conceal her feelings, as much as possible, 
from the boy, she said encouragingly: 

“ I don’t think so, dear. Aunt Kora will leave 
me up here for a long time, I hope—and I am sure 
we shall be very happy together.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Some three weeks later, Lionel Dean drove up to 
the Wood House, on an out-side car, and sprang 
lightly to the ground. 

“Well, Pat,” he said gaily to the servant, who 
came forward to meet him. “How’s every¬ 
body ? ” 

“ In the best of health, sir.” 

“ That’s right. Any news ? ” 

“Sorra word. Beyant an eviction or two, sure 
there’s nothin’ at all happens in these parts.” 

Lionel frowned. The bright look vanished from 
his face. 

“True. But you have had fine weather. The 
harvest will be good ? ” 

“ Wid the blessin’ of God it will, sir. An’ sure 
that same is wanted, badly.” 

“ Very badly. Where is my father ? ” 

84 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


85 


“ In the library, sir. An’ sure it’s himself *11 be 
glad to get ye back. For it’s raal lonesome he is 
in this big house, all by himself.’ 7 

“ I am sure it is, Pat. Be careful of that small 
box. It’s very fragile.” 

And leaving the servant to look after his luggage, 
Lionel passed on to the library. 

Mr. Dean looked up with a glad smile of wel¬ 
come, as his son entered the room, and grasped him 
by the hand. 

“Well, my boy, it’s a pleasure to see you. I’ve 
missed you every day, and often wished you back.” 

“ I am surprised to hear that, father. I could 
easily have come home much sooner,” said Lionel. 
“Slow as those pottering lawyers are, they had 
finished everything nearly a month ago. But you 
urged me strongly to stay for that ball at the 
Carltons.” 

“ Of course—of course—I should have felt much 
annoyed if you had not done so. They are people 
worth cultivating. And besides, it is good for a 
young man to go into society—to see a little of life. 
However, now that it’s over, I am glad to get you 
back. Had you a pleasant journey ? ” 


86 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“Very. But I declare, father/’ he said, laugh¬ 
ing, “I was seriously annoyed once or twice with 
those old friends of yours, Messrs. Dingle and 
Carter. It was most preposterous the way they 
dawdled over that business of ours. It seems ab¬ 
surd to say it, perhaps, but it struck me several 
times that they were slow on purpose, just to keep 
me hanging about London.” 

Mr. Dean looked curiously at his son. 

“ It is not likely they would care whether you 
stayed in London or not,” he said, sharply. “ And 
from my experience lawyers are always slow.” 

“ I dare say. Probably it was their usual method 
of managing business. But it looked odd, once or 
twice.” 

“Nonsense. They did not hurry, I suppose. And 
I can’t see that it mattered much. Your time is not 
precious.” 

“No. I wish it were. Every man and woman 
should have an object in life—something to work 
for—” said Lionel, with a sigh, as he took a cigarette 
from his case. “ It is poor fun trying to kill time. 
And to tell you the truth, father, I’d rather do it 
in Donegal than in London.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


87 


“ Indeed ! You surprise me. Now, in my young 
days—” 

“ If ye plaise, sir,” said Pat, opening the door, 
“ there’s a man wants to see ye.” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“ A stranger, sir. He wouldn’t tell me who he 
was. It was on business he wanted ye, he said, an’ 
his name didn’t matter.” 

“Some poor tenant, wanting help, I suppose,” 
said Lionel. “ Don’t be hard on him, father. 
The harvest promises well. Lend him some 
money, if he wants it, till he saves his 
crops.” : 

“ Pray, allow me to manage my own affairs, 
Lionel. You have nothing to do with these mat¬ 
ters, at present. Leave me now. I will call you 
when this man has gone.” 

“ All right. But I think I’ll take a stroll. 
There’s someone I want to see,” and he smiled as 
he thought of the welcome that awaited him at 
Dun more. How glad Kathleen would be to see 
him. How pleased she would be with the 
autumn roses he had brought her from Covent 
Garden. 


88 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ I would rather you did not go far away,” said 
Mr. Dean. “I have something of importance to 
communicate to you.” 

“Have you?” answered Lionel, surprised at his 
father’s stern manner. “ But won’t it keep till to¬ 
night? I am anxious to see my friends.” 

“ You must put 01T your visits, pray. I shall 
want you here again in half an hour.” 

“ I shall do as you desire, of course. But—” 

Lionel paused, a look of vexation on his hand¬ 
some face. And as he stood, divided between 
an anxiety to respect his father’s wishes, and 
a longing to visit Kathleen at once, the door 
opened and the stranger was ushered in. Lionel 
started and stared at him in surprise. The 
visitor was not a poor farmer, but a big, burly 
man, wearing the uniform of the Royal Irish 
Constabulary. 

Mr. Dean signed to his son to go; but Lionel 
lingered, wondering what was wrong. Had some 
crime been committed in his absence? Was his 
father anxious to discover the criminals? He 
watched the man breathlessly. But his first words 
reassured him. 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


89 


u I hear you are looking for some new tenants, 
Mr. Dean,” the man said, bowing respectfully. 

“ Yes. I have several farms to let at present.” 
Lionel breathed more freely. As his father fre¬ 
quently told him, he had nothing to do with the 
management of the estate, and he turned to leave 
the library, when suddenly, a name that was even 
now in his mind and in his heart, fell upon his ear, 
and arrested his footsteps upon the threshold. 

“ But the place I came to inquire about,” said 
the policeman, “is Dunmore. We are willing to 
pay a good rent for it, as it will suit our purposes 
exactly.” 

“ Dunmore is not to be let. It belongs to 
Mrs. Burke,” cried Lionel, turning quickly round. 
“ Surely, you mean some other house ? ” 

“ Pardon me, sir, I mean Dunmore. It did be¬ 
long to Mrs. Burke, but since her death—” 

“Her death !” Lionel grew white to the lips. 
“She is not dead. You are dreaming, man.” 

“ No, sir. The poor lady’s dead. She was buried 
this day, six weeks ago. I thought you knew, sir. 
She’s much mourned in the country, for she was 
always good to the poor. God rest her soul.” 


90 


KATHLEEN MAVOUftNEEN. 


Lionel sank into a chair by the table, and burying 
his face in his hands, uttered a low moan of anguish. 

“ Leave us for a moment,” said Mr. Dean to the 
policeman. “ He is shocked to hear of this death.” 

“ An’ sure he’s not the only one was that,” replied 
the man, sadly. “ An’ many say it was the notice 
to quit did it. Like every other poor Irish woman, 
be she gentle or simple, she loved her home.” 

“ Leave us,” said Mr. Dean, sternly. “ And now, 
Lionel,” as the man disappeared, “pray, do not 
make a fool of yourself. Mrs. Burke was only a 
distant relative. It is not necessary to mourn her 
so deeply.” 

Lionel raised his head slowly. His face was 
white; there was a look of horror in his eyes. 

“Is it true, what he said? Did you threaten to 
evict her from her home ? ” 

“What nonsense. Dunmore is my property. I 
wished to get a higher rent for it, so I told her she 
must? go. But before the time came, she died. Her 
heart, says the doctor, was weak and diseased for 
years.” 

“ Poor soul! How happy she must have been to 
go to heaven. But—” starting to his feet, and grasp- 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


91 


ing his father by the arm, “ if Dunmore is empty— 
if you are looking for a new tenant—in the name of 
God—where is Kathleen ? ” 

“ How violent you are,” cried Mr. Dean, shaking 
himself free. “ How do I know. I am not Miss 
Burke’s keeper. She is with friends, I suppose.” 

“ I trust so. Father Lavens would be sure to 
take care of her, poor little lonely girl.” 

“ I dare say. You need not be uneasy.” 

“ Kathleen Mavourneen,” murmured Lionel, in a 
low, broken voice, “the fate from which you longed 
so ardently to save the poor peasants, has fallen upon 
you. But you, thank God, have friends and money. 
For,” he said aloud, “of course you gave compen¬ 
sation? The Burkes have made Dunmore what it 
is. You never laid out a penny upon it. So the 
sum given would have been large.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Mr. Dean, coldly. “ I gave 
no compensation. There is no law to oblige me to 
do so. The property is mine. I have a right to 
take it back when I choose.” 

Lionel looked his father straight in the face. 

“Property has its duties, as well as its rights. 
So far, our family has upheld its rights, nobly. 


92 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


From this day I will labor to enforce its duties. 
And with the help of God I shall succeed.” 

“ Until my death you have no power upon this 
estate.” 

“ No. But it is not only here, which is after all 
but a small corner of the world, but all over the 
country, that changes must be made. Everywhere 
throughout Ireland the rights of the tenant, the 
duties of the landlord have been neglected.” 

“ And how, may I ask,” said Mr. Dean with a 
sneer, " do you propose to remedy the evil ? How 
are you going to change a state of things that has 
existed for centuries ? ” 

“ Of myself, I could do little. But I have re¬ 
solved to join a band of earnest men anxious to 
promote the welfare of their unhappy countrymen. 
Whilst in London they asked me to stand for Par¬ 
liament at the next election. I refused. But I 
am now determined to offer myself as a candidate, 
and if I am returned, I shall do all I can to im¬ 
prove the laws. From this day, father, I espouse 
the cause of the most down-trodden creature on 
earth, the Irish tenant.” 


CHAPTER X. 


The next morning Lionel ate his breakfast alone. 
His father and he had had angry words the night 
before. The old man was annoyed at his son’s new¬ 
fangled notions, and indignant that he should dare 
to find fault with him, as to the manner in which 
he managed his estate. He was master, and he 
would allow no one to interfere with anything he 
might choose to do. Up to this Lionel had given 
him little trouble. He had always seemed indiffer¬ 
ent upon the subject, and so long as he was per¬ 
mitted to ride, fish and shoot, he rarely inquired 
into the tenants’ affairs. But Kathleen’s earnest¬ 
ness, her tender pleadings and entreaties had been 
doing their work, though he knew it not. Some¬ 
thing of the young girl’s fire had entered his heart. 
A feeling that the people on the estate were badly 
treated had grown up slowly in his mind. The 

93 


94 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


burning of Pat O’Connor’s hut had roused his in¬ 
dignation, and made him think deeply. And now, 
this sudden, capricious eviction of his friends from 
their home, removed all lingering doubt, and he 
saw clearly how evil was the system by which the 
people of Ireland were oppressed. In London he 
had met men anxious to alter the law, to give rights 
to the tenants, as well as to the landlords. Kath¬ 
leen’s oft-repeated prayer, that he should do good ; 
that he should not spend his life entirely in search 
of amusement, came into his mind, and he almost 
consented to help them in their noble work. But 
something held him back. It was not seemly or 
becoming that he, the son of a landlord, should join 
in this cry against his class, that was making itself 
heard throughout the length and breadth of the 
land. His father would not like it, and he felt 
bound to study his wishes in this, as in everything 
else. So he begged them not to press him further, 
and returned to Donegal resolved, that if he could 
not take active steps in their favor, he would at least 
urge his father to be less harsh and tyrannical in his 
future dealings with the people. But this unex¬ 
pected blow—Mrs. Burke’s threatened eviction, her 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


95 


death, and Kathleen’s departure from the country— 
brought matters to a crisis, and Lionel was filled 
with anger, remorse and pity. How blind he had 
been. How selfish and unreasoning. From that 
hour his life should be changed. He would work 
night and day to improve the condition of the poor 
tenants. The harm that had been done could not, 
alas, be undone. Those who had been cast out of 
their homes, and had died of starvation, or gone 
to America, could not be recalled. But for those 
who remained new laws should be made—laws 
that would enable them to stay in their cabins, or 
if obliged to leave, secure them compensation for 
the improvements they might have effected. His 
father’s conduct had shocked him; and he felt that 
it had absolved him from any tenderness or con¬ 
sideration for his feelings. His harsh cruelty left 
him free to join the national movement if he chose. 

As Lionel explained things in this way, Mr. 
Dean grew more and more furious; and at last, 
angered beyond words, he left the library, declar- 
ing that his son must be mad, and that until he 
changed his mind, and returned to ideas more 
worthy of a man of his birth and education, he 


96 KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 

would hold no further communication with him. 
lie might stay at the Wood House if he pleased ; 
but all friendly intercourse between them must be 
at an end, unless Lionel would unsay his cruel 
words and apologize for the wild speeches he had 
made. He then shut the door with a bang that 
shook the house, and Lionel was left alone. 

When the dinner hour came round, Mr. Dean did 
not appear, and the young man, having eaten but 
little of the good things that were placed before 
him, retired to his room with a dull, aching pain at 
his heart. Here he sat, far into the night, ponder¬ 
ing deeply over the strange position in which he 
now found himself. At war with his father—ready 
to rush into a struggle, which would cost him much 
trouble, worry and annoyance; alienate his friends 
and make his home uncomfortable. 

“ And why ? What shall I gain by such a com¬ 
bat?’’ he cried. “ Why should I torment myself ? 
Why not leave this disagreeable task to others? 
Oh, Kathleen, my heart fails me. If you were 
only here to encourage me. If I had but your 
faith—your strong belief that to do something, be¬ 
cause we know it to be right and good, no matter 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


97 


what it costs us, will please God and bring His 
blessing upon our work—then I might go on with 
a clear conscience and a firm will. But alas, you 
are away. I have no one to help me. My whole 
nature cries out against the step I am about to take. 
But your wrongs—your mother’s death—your evic¬ 
tion from your home, pushes me forward—shows 
me the iniquity of our laws, our cruelty towards 
our unhappy tenants. So for your sake, I go on. 
And with the help of God I shall accomplish some¬ 
thing good.” 

Then at last, tired and weary, he went to bed, and 
fell asleep. But his rest was broken and troubled. 
The thought of Kathleen, motherless and homeless, 
haunted him, and in his dreams he saw her poor and 
forsaken, her face worn and pinched, her beautiful 
eyes dim with much weeping. He tried to speak to 
her, to console her, but she fled from him, and 
he awoke with a cry. After that he could sleep no 
more, and lay tossing feverishly from side to side, 
longing for the dawn of day. 

As the sun rose, Lionel got up unrefreshed, un¬ 
certain as to his future life, and very sad at heart. 
He dressed quickly, and ate a hasty breakfast. Then 
7 


98 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


leaving a message that he would not be back until the 
evening, started off for a long walk across the hills. 

High up the mountain road he went, encounter¬ 
ing on the way several sturdy farmers, who looked 
at him in astonishment, wondering as they saluted 
him respectfully, why the young master was out so 
early, and why he looked so sad. 

“ There is going to be a fair to-day at Glent,” 
thought Lionel, as, standing in the midst of the 
rude, fantastic hills, he gazed down upon the level 
sands, and the little chapel that lay below, in the 
valley. In a general way the country had a lonely, 
deserted look, but now the sands were populous. 
Men and women were trooping over the glisten¬ 
ing shore; horses without riders; mares with rough 
coats and lively foals; small mountain kine; sheep 
with soft eyes and stupid faces; obstinate, inde¬ 
pendent pigs, cautiously urged on in the right path 
by their owners; young men and maidens in their 
cleanest attire are crowding along, all hoping for 
good luck and high prices for the various animals 
they have to dispose of. 

“ Poor souls/’ sighed Lionel. “ I trust you may 
have a successful day. You will require all the 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.. 9$ 

money you can get. For I fear my father’s hand 
will be heavy upon you. My conduct has angered 
him. He may revenge himself upon you.” 

This thought increased his sorrow, and turning 
away with a groan, he toiled on up the face of the 
dark, frowning mountain. 

At a high point, from which he can see the waters 
of Mulroy, Sheephaven and Downing’s Bay, gleam¬ 
ing brightly in the morning sun, he comes upon two 
tiny cabins. Before them three or four little brown, 
bare-legged children, besport themselves in scanty 
clothing. 

As he stands and looks at them for a moment, 
amused by their merry laughter and lively chatter, 
the door of one of the cottages opens, and Father 
Lavens comes out. Even thus early, he has been 
obliged to climb the steep hill on an errand of 
mercy. Within that humble dwelling an old 
woman lies dying, and to her he has come to 
administer the last sacraments and comfort her in 
her agony. 

He smiles as he meets the children; pats one 
upon the head, says a kindly word of greeting to 
the others, and hurries on. At the end of the nar- 


100 KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 

row path his eyes fall upon Lionel, and his kindly 
face instantly assumes an expression of stern dis¬ 
pleasure. He bows coldly, and buttoning his coat 
with an impatient movement, passes quickly by. 

“ Father Lavens,” cries Lionel, starting forward. 
“ Pray, stay for a moment.” 

The priest stopped, and looked at him inquiringly. 

“ What can I do for you, Mr. Dean ? ” 

“ You can tell me. I am sure you know. Where 
is Kathleen ? ” 

“ Miss Burke is with friends.” 

“ Of course. But where ? What is her address? ” 

“That I am not at liberty to tell. And after the 
manner in which you and your father have treated 
the poor child and her mother, ? tis better you should 
never meet again.” 

“ But I was away. I knew nothing of what was 
going on,” exclaimed Lionel, quickly. “ Kathleen 
could have told you that.” 

“She did,” replied the priest, softening a little, 
“but I thought she had been deceived. She had 
known you as a friend, and that, to a warm, loving 
nature like hers, was enough. She would never 
doubt or suspect you of doing wrong.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


101 


u Nor had she any cause to do so. I was sent 
from home on business, and I went, without the 
faintest idea that Mrs. Burke and her daughter 
were to receive notice to leave their home. They 
were my best, I may say my only friends, for my 
affection for others is as nothing compared with 
what I feel for them. My father’s cruelty—the 
unjust way in which he has treated them—has 
opened my eyes to many things. From this hour, 
Father Lavens, I intend to devote my life, my 
energies, to doing good to our people.” 

The priest’s eyes shone with happiness, and tears 
sprang to his eyes. 

“God bless you,” he cried, grasping the young 
man’s hand, and pressing it warmly. “ Sure, you’ll 
landlord here some day, and even before that you’ll 
have much in your power. It’s splendid to hear 
you say those words. You’ll bring happiness to 
many a poor cottage.” 

“ I am afraid I shall not be able to do so in the 
way you mean. My father will brook no inter¬ 
ference. But I intend to work hard in another 
way. I have determined to enter Parliament, and 
fight for the rights of the poor Irish tenants.” 


102 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ What! ” cried Father Lavens, lifting up his 
hands in astonishment. “ You, the son of a land¬ 
lord. I cannot believe that you will dare to do 
such a thing. That you will work night and day 
to pass a land act that will impoverish your friends. 
Oh, it is impossible. You will never have courage to 
do it. It is against all the traditions of your race.” 

“ Nevertheless, it shall be done. It is a great 
work, and surely one you must approve of.” 

“I? My dear sir, the thought brings joy to my 
heart, and I can hardly believe my senses. God 
alone could have wrought this sudden change in 
you. And I marvel at it, wondering how it has 
been brought about. Ah, now, I know. It has 
been won for you by prayer.” 

“ By prayer ? ” 

“Yes. By the fervent prayers of an innocent 
child, who, trusting in your goodness, has all her 
life looked upon you as the possible saviour of our 
unhappy people. I speak of Kathleen Burke.” 

“You are right. Kathleen’s influence has been 
at work. She is an angel, Father Lavens, and any 
good that is in me, is due to her and her sweet, 
unselfish example.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


103 


“ Do not exaggerate, my son,” said the priest, 
smiling. “ Kathleen, with her quick, 'sensitive 
nature, is no angel. But she is a true woman, 
full of noble aspirations, and gifted with a deep, 
unbounded faith in God’s power and mercy.” 

“True. I have often wondered at her simple 
faith.” 

Father Lavens did not answer for a moment. 
He raised his head and allowed his eyes to wander 
far over the country. Then looking earnestly at 
Lionel, he said: 

“This land is barren. The people who live on 
it work hard, and have little to comfort them. 
They know nothing of the luxury, or of the joys 
of life. What then sustains them? What helps 
them to bear cheerfully, as they do, the heavy 
afflictions that press upon them? It is their faith. 
That beautiful, simple faith in God, which is the 
great gift the Almighty has bestowed upon our people 
here in Ireland. They are poor. But what of that? 
The riches of this world pass away, but this precious 
treasure of faith and trust will endure forever. Kath¬ 
leen Burke is Irish to her heart’s core. Her faith will 
carry her triumphantly through all her troubles.” 


104 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN 


“ Her troubles are, I trust, practically at an end. 
I love her, and hope to win her as my wife.” 

“ You are a Protestant.” 

“ Yes. But I love and reverence the Catholic 
religion. Who could fail to do so, knowing Kath¬ 
leen as I do.” 

“ That is not enough. To make the child thor¬ 
oughly happy, you should be a Catholic. I know 
what you would say, mixed marriages are frequent, 
especially in England. But to my mind they are 
much to be deplored. Religion, religious feeling 
should be the key-note of every happy household. 
How can that be, or how can perfect unity exist, 
where husband and wife are divided upon this most 
important, this most vital subject ? ” 

“ I agree with you, up to a certain point, but not 
entirely. However, will you not leave it to Kath¬ 
leen to decide ? ” 

“ Yes. I think I may safely. Yet—” 

“You spoke just now of the power of prayer,” 
urged Lionel. “ Prayer has done much for me. 
Then why should it not do more?” 

“ With God all things are possible,” said the 
priest, reverently. “You have a noble nature. In 


KATHLEEN MAVOUItNEEN. 


105 


time, perhaps, He may grant you this great gift of 
faith; meanwhile, 1 Dulce et decorum est pro patria 
mori 9 —‘’Tis sweet, glorious and honorable to die 
for one’s country/ says Horace. You shall not 
be asked to die, but if by your labors you help to 
lighten the load borne by these poor peasants, God 
will bless you; and you will feel how sweet and 
honorable it is to do His work. Come to my 
house this afternoon, and I will give you Kath¬ 
leen’s address.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


The days passed over pleasantly enough in the 
attic rooms in Camlet Square; and when Kathleen 
suddenly discovered that she had been a week in 
London, she was amazed. Her heart was still sad, 
and at times she felt terribly lonely and deserted. 
Then the sound of Jacky’s voice, raised in querulous 
altercation with one of the servants, would startle 
her, and in her anxiety to soothe and pacify him, 
she would try to assume a cheerfulness she did not 
possess. These unselfish efforts invariably brought 
their reward, for in rousing herself to amuse her 
cousin, she distracted her mind, and for the time 
being escaped from the world of her own sad 
thoughts. 

For some reason unknown to Jacky and the ser¬ 
vants, Mr. and Mrs. Selwood and their daughters 
still lingered in Brighton. 

106 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


107 


“Do they often leave you like this?” asked 
Kathleen one morning, as Jacky was wondering 
why they did not return. 

“ Often. But I don’t mind. My sisters and I 
are always quarrelling, and mother doesn’t care to 
be seen with a cripple son.” 

“ I think you are mistaken there, dear,” she 
answered gently, “ remember, you thought I would 
not like to go about with you, and you know now 
that you were quite wrong.” 

“ Yes,” he replied thoughtfully, “ but that was 
before I knew you. Since then I have found out 
that you are different from mother and Gwen and 
Lina. You are not always wondering what people 
will say and think about you.” 

“ No, dear, I hope not. I do what I believe to 
be right, and it matters little to me what the world 
says or thinks.” 

“ Yes, I know, but mother is not like that. She 
is anxious to please the worldly people she meets, to 
look nice, and have everything nice about her. So 
as I ”—flushing—“ am not a pretty object, I am left 
at home.” 

“Jacky,” said Kathleen gravely, “you must try 


108 


KATHLEEN MAVOU11NEEN. 


to put these thoughts out of your head. It is wrong 
to brood over them. They make you discontented 
an.l unhappy.” 

Jacky sighed. 

“ I dare say. But how can I be anything else ? 
It is sad to be a cripple and have no one to love 
you.” 

“Yes, dear, very sad, if it were true. But in 
your case, Jacky, I cannot believe that it is. You 
are a cripple, but you have a mother, father and 
sisters—” 

“ But I tell you they do not love me. They—” 

“ Then it must be your own fault.” 

Jacky opened his eyes very wide and stared at her. 

“My fault?” 

“Yes, yours. Listen, Jacky, since I arrived you 
have always been telling me about your sisters’ short¬ 
comings, and never about your own ; and yet I feel 
that with them—you must forgive me if I speak 
plainly—you are cross and rude, ever on the look¬ 
out for slights, and ready to suspect them of being 
unkind to you.” 

“So they are unkind and ill-natured. You don’t 
know them—all frills and airs and affectation.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


109 


“ I don’t know them. But I know you, Jacky, 
and from what I have seen—but perhaps I had 
better say no more?” 

“Go on. I know what you’ll say. You’ll 
tell me I am an ill-tempered and disagreeable 
boy.” 

“Not quite, dear, but I will say that you do 
not take pains enough to be amiable with your 
mother and sister.” 

“Why should I? They’re a jolly sight too un¬ 
kind to me. Bose always says so.” 

“ Then Bose is very wrong. And even were she 
right, that is no excuse for you. We must return 
good for evil, remember.” 

“I’m not a saint,” grumbled Jacky. “If people 
don’t love me, I can’t love them.” 

“Yet our Lord tells us to love our enemies.” 

“ Yes. But it’s a terribly hard thing to do. Per¬ 
haps if I hadn’t so much to bear—if—if I wasn’t a 
wretched cripple I might not mind.” 

“Poor little boy,” said Kathleen, laying her hand 
affectionately upon his curly head, “you exaggerate 
your lameness, which is after all very slight. You 
can walk very well with your crutches.” 


110 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


“ Yes. Now I can, but for years I lay on my 
back. I think people were kinder then. Mother 
was, for she used to be more with me, and the girls 
were not so stuck up and silly.” 

“I dare say you were more easily managed in 
those days. And now, Jacky, you must try to be 
more patient. God has given you this cross to 
bear, and bear it you must. If you do so humbly, 
with patience and resignation, it will prove a bless¬ 
ing to you. Remember the words of the ‘Imita¬ 
tion ’ that we read last night: ‘ If thou carry the 
cross willingly, it will carry thee, and bring thee to 
thy desired end. If thou carry it unwillingly, thou 
makest it a burden to thyself, and loadest thysell 
the more, and nevertheless thou must bear it.’ ” 

“ It is dreadfully hard that—dreadfully.” 

“ No, dear, I don’t think you will find it so, if 
you are patient.” 

“But how am I to get patience? I can’t say 
long prayers and—” 

“ You need not say long prayers. Every morning 
offer yourself to God, and for the sake of our dear 
Lord, Who suffered so much for us, promise to bear 
your cross and any troubles that it may cause you.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


Ill 


“I will,” said Jacky, in a low voice. “I will 
indeed.” 

“That is right. And you will soon see how kind 
and gentle your sisters will become when they find 
that you are working hard to be good and contented.” 

“ I hope so, but I am afraid it will be a long time 
before I am different to what I am now.” 

“Not so very long, dear, if you have courage. 
But, Jacky, you promised to take me out this morn¬ 
ing. I want to go to the Jesuit Church in Farm 
street. I have not been there yet. We shall just 
be in time for the ten o’clock mass, if we start now. 
And we can pray together, offering it up for your 
intention. Shall we go ? ” 

“ Yes, if you like, but it’s a good, long distance.” 

“Never mind. We’ll get the ’bus part of the 
way.” 

“ It’s wonderful how often master Jacky goes out 
now,” said Rose to the cook, as she watched the 
lame boy go down the hall-door steps with Kath¬ 
leen. “ And it seems to me he walks much better 
than he did.” 

“ Very likely,” answered the cook. “ That young 
lady is kind and gentle. And to anyone afflicted as 


112 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEN. 


poor master Jacky is, kindness is of more value than 
gold” 

Meanwhile Kathleen and her guide threaded 
their way carefully through the streets. Jacky 
could not walk very fast; but as the ’bus took 
them over the most crowded part, and set them 
down at the entrance to Hyde Park, which is a 
short distance from the church, they had taken their 
places in front of the altar before the priest came 
out to say mass. 

“ Kathleen,” said Jacky, as they walked back 
through the mews, in which stands the beautiful 
Church of the Immaculate Conception. “How fer¬ 
vently you pray. You seemed absorbed the whole 
time of mass.” 

The girl turned her earnest eyes, shining with a 
strong, loving faith, full upon his face. 

“ I have so much to pray for, Jacky. So many 
graces to ask of our blessed Lord.” 

“And you really think people get things they 
pray for?” 

“ I have great belief in the power of prayer, dear, 
though God does not always give us just what we 
ask for. There is one grace, one all important 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


113 


grace that I have prayed for, Jacky, for a person 
I love, and have loved since I was a child. It has 
not been granted yet; but I feel sure it will be, 
sooner or later. Some day God will listen to my 
prayers. I know—I feel—” 

“ And—and supposing/’ Jacky hesitated, and a 
deep flush dyed his pale cheek. 

“ Well, dear, what is it?” 

“ Supposing I were to ask God to—to make me 
able to walk without crutches, would He hear my 
prayers ? ” 

Kathleen slipped her hand within his arm, 
and looked down upon him with tender com¬ 
passion. 

“For everything we want, but especially such 
things as that, Jacky, we must pray, subject to the 
will of God,” she said gently. “ Your lameness is 
a severe trial; but it may be for your good. And 
it is better—more perfect to bear it patiently than 
to ask to have it removed. God is all powerful, 
and could make you strong and able to walk like 
others. But after all, dear, that is a small matter 
compared with graces for our souls. If we are 
meek and humble of heart, it matters little how we 
8 


114 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


walk or look. Pray, then, for patience; accepting 
willingly your cross, and you will soon receive an 
answer to your prayers.” 

Jacky was disappointed. As lie had told Kath¬ 
leen he was only a “ sort of a Catholic,” and it was 
quite new to him that goodness and purity of heart 
were of more importance than physical strength and 
beauty. The son of a worldly mother, accustomed 
to hearing his acquaintances praised or despised, 
according to the amount of good looks they pos¬ 
sessed, he had become embittered, regarding his 
lameness, as the cause of all his woes. His greatest 
wish was to be straight and strong, like other bovs 
that he saw around him; and the thought that he 
never could be so filled him with rage, and made 
him ill-tempered and quarrelsome. Kathleen’s gen¬ 
tleness and sweet resignation, the uncomplaining 
manner in which she had taken his mother’s unkind 
neglect surprised him, and he began to wonder why 
she was so different from him and his sisters. Every 
day since her arrival in London, as he knelt beside 
her at mass, he had watched her closely, and seeing 
how fervently she prayed, how peaceful the expres¬ 
sion of her beautiful face, as she became absorbed in 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


115 


her devotions, a great longing to be more like her 
took possession of him. 

“ But,” he would think sadly, " how can I ? I 
am such a wretched, unhappy boy. If only I 
were not a cripple, I would soon grow kind and 
good.” And then came the thought, “ God might 
cure me, and make me strong. Kathleen prays 
so hard. Perhaps she will help me. I will ask 
her.” 

But Kathleen’s answer was not what he expected. 
He was vexed and dissatisfied, and walked along by 
her side in sullen silence. 

The young girl guessed what was passing through 
his mind, but thought it best to say no more. She 
felt full of pity for him, and would gladly have 
comforted him if she could. But it was a difficult 
task, one far beyond her she knew. God alone had 
power to touch the child’s heart, and give him the 
grace he required. So, looking up into the blue 
heavens, Kathleen murmured a short prayer, im¬ 
ploring our Lord to help poor Jacky; asking our 
holv Mother to be a mother to him, and teach him 
to bear patiently the heavy cross that had been laid 
upon him. 


116 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


As they went through the park, the boy’s steps 
began to flag, he walked slowly, and with more 
difficulty than usual. 

“Sit down, Jacky, you are tired,” said Kath¬ 
leen, stopping near a seat under a wide, shady tree. 
“This is a quiet place. We can rest here for a 
while.” 

Jacky sat down without a word, and laying his 
crutches aside, he bent forward, and covering his 
face with his hands, he burst into tears. 

Kathleen laid her hand caressingly upon his 
bowed head. 

“ My poor boy,” she whispered, “ you must not 
weep.” 

“Must not! Oh, Kathleen, how can I help it? 
Think how unhappy I am.” 

“ I know that you make yourself unhappy, and 
I am grieved that you should do so. I do not like 
to be always preaching, Jacky, but you must not 
fight so persistently against your troubles. Accept 
cheerfully the cross that has fallen to your lot. Pray 
hard for grace to bear it well, and the peace of Christ, 
which surpasses all understanding, will come upon 
you.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


117 


The girl spoke earnestly. Her sweet voice shook 
with emotion, and her eyes were full of love and 
tenderness. 

Jacky raised his head, and looked at her for a 
moment. Then seizing her hand, he clasped it 
tightly within his own. 

“ For the second time this morning, I say that 
I will try to be patient/’ his lips trembled, “ and 
try to bear my cross. But, Kathleen, you must 
pray for me and help me, and you must not be dis¬ 
appointed if I break down many times.” 

“ Certainly not—nor must you be discouraged, 
dear; that you should do so is only natural, and I 
will pray for you night and day, and, please God, 
you will soon be a happy little boy.” Then bend¬ 
ing, she kissed him on the forehead. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Selwood and their 
two handsome, fashionable daughters, returned from 
Brighton. Soon after their arrival, Kathleen was 
sent for; and feeling somewhat nervous and agi¬ 
tated, the girl descended from her little room in 
the attic, and entered her aunt’s elegantly furnished 
boudoir. 

Mrs. Sclwood’s manner was not absolutely un¬ 
kind, but there was neither warmth nor affection in 
her greeting. 

Gwen and Lina said: u IIow do you do?” in a 
cold, indifferent tone of voice, as they presented the 
side of their cheeks to be kissed. Then sinking 
back in their arm-chairs, they locked her up and 
down with a cool, supercilious stare, which was any¬ 
thing but reassuring to poor, shy little Kathleen. 

118 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


119 


“ Come here/’ said Mrs. Selwood, making room 
for the girl on the sofa beside her. “ I want to 
have a talk with you.” 

Kathleen sat down as desired. Her heart was 
beating fast. This cold reception pained her, and she 
felt afraid to speak, lest she should burst into tears. 

“ You are not like poor Lucy,” remarked Mrs. 
Selwood, examining her niece with a critical look. 
“ You are quite Irish in appearance, I suppose, for 
you do not resemble any of our family.” 

“ Yes, she is certainly very Irish,” murmured 
Gwen. 

“Dark eyes, dark hair, and a high color,” said 
Lina, fanning herself languidly, as she glanced 
admiringly at her own mop of fair curls in the 
long looking-glass, near which she sat. “ Irish 
girls all answer to that description.” 

Kathleen smiled, and looked inquiringly at her 
cousins. 

“ And are all English girls fair like you?” 

“Generally fair; but, of course, not like me.” 

“ That would be too much to expect,” remarked 
Gwen, with a sneer. “ Lina considers hers a very 
uncommon type of beauty, I assure you. There are 


120 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


few girls like the second Miss Selwood—that is, in 
her own estimation. But,” looking hard at Kath¬ 
leen, “ it is absurd to say that you have a high color. 
You are as white as a lily.” 

“ You must be color-blind, Gwen; but, of course, 
you always contradict me. She is scarlet.” 

" No wonder. Any one would blush with you star¬ 
ing at them as you are doing—that is, anyone who 
could blush—to you that has long been a lost art.” 
And having administered this parting shot, Gwen rose 
from her chair and sailed gracefully out of the room. 

“ Such impertinence! ” cried Lina. “ As if any 
one but a country bumpkin ever attempted to 
blush. Mother, I’ll be in my room when you 
want me.” And without taking any further notice 
of Kathleen, she too swept across the floor and 
disappeared. 

Kathleen felt much relieved at their departure. 
It was unpleasant to be discussed and criticized so 
openly; and the wrangling tone in which the sisters 
spoke to each other, was extremely painful. 

“ Poor Jacky. No wonder he finds it hard to get 
on with them,” she thought. “ His account of them 
is, I fear, only too true.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


121 


“ And now,” said Mrs. Selwood, breaking in upon 
the girl’s reverie, “you must try to get accustomed 
to our town ways. I do not know what sort of a 
life you led in Ireland, for I had but little com¬ 
munication with my sister since her marriage. I 
am afraid we shall have to leave you a great deal to 
yourself. The girls and I go out so much that we 
shall see you very seldom. I am looking for a 
governess for Jacky, however, and she will be a 
companion for you. That is, if I can get one, who 
will stay. But really, that boy is so troublesome 
that no one can manage him. He is the torment of 
my life.” 

“ Aunt,” said Kathleen eagerly, “ let me be 
Jacky’s governess. I am anxious to do some¬ 
thing. I could not live here in idleness; and I 
think I could manage him.” 

“ You ? My dear, you do not know what you 
are talking about. He is most tiresome.” 

“No, he is not. That is, I think he likes me. 
Let me try; and if I do not succeed, you can get 
someone else.” 

“ Well, I see no harm in that; but I do not care 
much for the idea of my niece acting as governess. 


122 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


It might look bad. People would be sure to 
talk.” 

Kathleen smiled brightly. 

“ No one knows me, aunt. And if they did, what 
would it matter? There is no disgrace in a girl 
teaching her little cousin. Quite the contrary. 
And if I am not allowed to teach Jacky, I shall 
have to look out for another pupil.” 

“ Well, I think you may try Jacky,” said Mrs. 
Selwood, thoughtfully. “ It might not be a bad 
thing. And, as you say, no one knows you. We 
need not mention the relationship outside the house. 
I must caution Rose and the other servants.” 

“ Just as you please,” answered Kathleen, coldly ; 
“ I shall never mention it.” 

“ No, of course not. I will pay you thirty pounds 
a year, and you and Jacky can live up-stairs. His 
sitting-room has always been used as a school-room. 
Will that satisfy you ? ” 

“ Quite. Good morning, Mrs. Selwood.” And 
with a dignified bend of her pretty head, Kathleen 
rose and left the boudoir. 

So, much to Jacky’s delight, Kathleen was in¬ 
stalled as his governess; and they settled down to 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


123 


work without delay. Like many children, both 
boys and girls, Jacky would not be driven. And 
with those who tried to drive him, he was rude and 
unmanageable. But when one, whom he loved and 
respected, took him gently in hand, leading him on, 
by word and example, to the knowledge and prac¬ 
tice of all that was good and useful, he became 
obedient and submissive. Occasionally his hot 
temper would get the better of him, and an angry 
outburst would interrupt the peaceful life of the 
school-room, and disturb the happiness of its in¬ 
mates. But, thanks to Kathleen’s tender firmness, 
such an occurrence grew rare, and in a short time 
Jacky became bright and cheerful, with a buoyancy 
that no one had ever seen in him before. His 
mother and sisters wondered at this, and set it down 
to the improvement in his health, which was also 
very marked at this time. But Kathleen, who 
knew the boy, and had watched his struggles, 
understood the change, and was well aware that 
it came from the trust in God’s goodness that was 
growing stronger within him every day. He was 
not, as yet, always ready to admit that the unpleasant 
things in his life were entirely beneficial; but he 


124 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


was learning gradually to feel that, in some mys¬ 
terious way, they were for his good. And so, from 
following Kathleen’s example, and practising the 
virtues she inculcated, he now accepted, with resig¬ 
nation, as coming from the hand of God, the many 
disagreeable incidents to which he was exposed. 
This gave him a happiness that he had never 
known before, and very soon it showed itself in 
his whole person, in the touch of his hand, in the 
sound of his voice. 

This change in her son gave great pleasure to 
Mrs. Selwood; for, in spite of her evident worldli¬ 
ness, she really loved the boy. In the old days he 
had worried and tormented her, and she had kept 
him out of sight as much as possible. But now 
she delighted in his society, and from dreading his 
appearance in her boudoir, she began to look for¬ 
ward to the hour before dinner spent there, with 
him and Kathleen, as the pleasantest part of the 
day. 

“That little Irish niece of mine is a treasure,” 
she would say. “I think she must possess some 
magic skill. She has worked upon Jacky like a 
charm.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


125 


And she spoke truly. Kathleen’s was a magic 
skill. But it was a skill that we may all possess, 
if we will. For it consisted in doing everything in 
God, and for God, with a deep and trusting faith 
in His love and mercy. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


During this time, in which Kathleen was work¬ 
ing so successfully with her little cousin, the girl’s 
heart was full of a sorrow that was all her own. 
She never murmured or complained. But in the 
midst of these cold-mannered strangers, in the whirl 
and bustle of the great city, she pined for the sight 
of a friend, for the peaceful stillness of the wild, 
yet picturesque country, in which she had passed so 
many happy years. 

One morning, about six weeks after her arrival 
in London, she received a letter from Father Lavens, 
and the sight of his writing and the Donegal post¬ 
mark, brought tears to her eyes and joy to her heart. 
But he told her little she wanted to know. Merely 
mentioned that Lionel had come home, and nothing 
more. This was but scant information, and as she 
126 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


127 


finished reading the letter, she folded it and put it 
back into the envelope with a sigh. 

“ No bad news, I hope?” asked Jacky, watch¬ 
ing her expressive face with much anxiety. 

“ No, dear. This does not tell me enough ; that 
is all.” 

“ About friends ? ” 

“ Yes, Jacky; but about one friend in particular.” 

“ The one you pray for so much ? ” 

Kathleen bowed her head. 

“ Yes,” she said softly, “the one I pray for—we 
pray for, Jacky.” 

“ Don’t fret about him, Kathleen. He is sure to 
be all right.” 

“ Thank you, dear. I feel that also—” 

That afternoon, when lessons were over, and the 
young governess and her pupil had had their early 
dinner, Jacky suggested that they should go and see 
some pictures. 

“ They are all so far away,” said Kathleen. “ It 
would be too fatiguing for you, I fear.” 

“ We’ll have a hansom. Mother gave me some 
pocket-money, yesterday. So we’ll have a swift 
hansom, and go off to the National Gallery.” 


128 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEN. 


Accordingly, a hansom was called, and away they 

went to Trafalgar Square. It was a beautiful day 

in September. The streets were full of gayly dressed 

people, some walking, some driving; and as Kath- 
* 

leen looked out on the busy throng, she felt inter¬ 
ested and amused, and for the time forgot her 
disappointment of the morning. 

“Look at these Romneys and Gainsboroughs, 
Kathleen,” cried Jacky, enthusiastically, as they 
strolled through the gallery; “ and these angels 
heads, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Are they not 
lovely ? ” 

“ Very, dear. But how well you seem to know 
them all/’ remarked his cousin, looking in surprise 
at the boy’s animated countenance. “I had no idea 
you were so fond of pictures.” 

“ I love them. They always make me feel happy. 
And shall I tell you a secret, Kathleen ? ” 

“ Yes, dear. What is it ? ” 

“ The greatest wish of my life is to be an artist.” 

“ I am glad. It must be a delightful profession.” 

“I should just think so. And then, when I am 
grown up and have studied a lot, you and I will go 
to Donegal, and I’ll paint all Mick Doolan’s chil- 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


129 


dren, and those funny old women you have told me 
about.” 

Kathleen laughed merrily. 

• “ That will be great fun. I fancy I see their 
faces. But,” sighing, “you are only ten, Jacky, it 
will be fifteen years, perhaps, before you are an 
artist. That length of time will make a terrible 
change. My friends will be all gone, perhaps, by 
then. The children grown up, the old people dead 
or evicted. Even two years would make a great 
difference in Donegal.” 

“ True. I forgot how uncertain life is for the 
poor people there. But, do you know, Kathleen, 
I sometimes feel that I positively love that hard¬ 
hearted landlord, Mr. Dean.” 

“ Jacky ? ” 

“Yes; I do truly. For remember, had it not 
been for him, I should never have known you.” 

“ It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” said 
Kathleen, laughing; “and I am glad poor Mr. Dean 
has secured one friend, at least.” 

“ It’s more than he deserves. However, I don’t 
suppose he would be unduly elated if he were told 
of my affection. But, look here, Kathleen, here’s a 
9 


130 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


picture by an Irishman, Maclise. Isn’t it fine? It’s 
the play scene in Hamlet.” 

“ Yes. It is beautifully grouped, and the color¬ 
ing is very good. Hamlet’s face is wonderful. How 
anxious and excited he looks. And the king and 
queen ! What a guilty look is in their eyes.” 

“Yes. It is splendidly done. But there’s a 
jolly little picture, ‘Happy as a King,’ I want to 
show you. I can’t think where they have hung it. 
Its position has been changed. Come, and let us 
look about for it.” 

They wandered on, hand in hand, through the 
various rooms, stopping every moment to admire 
some masterpiece of art. To Kathleen they were 
all new. But to Jacky, they were well-known and 
much loved treasures. 

“Oh, Jacky, how lovely this is,” she cried, sink¬ 
ing down upon a chair, in front of Francia’s touch¬ 
ing picture of the “ Head Christ.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “but I wish I could find 
the little painting I want. You stay here, and I’ll 
have a look for it.” And without wait ins: for a 
reply, he went away, his crutches making a loud 
noise, as he hurried along over the polished floor. 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


131 


Kathleen scarcely notices his departure, and sits 
absorbed in the beauty of the picture before her. 
The exquisite face of our Saviour, still and white in 
death; the heart-broken expression of the Virgin 
Mother, as she bends over the dead body of iier 
beloved Son, touches the girl to the soul, and fills 
her with love and adoration. 

“ How can we murmur, or complain at our small 
sorrows, if we think of Mary’s anguish, of the 
agony she endured at the time of the Passion?” she 
reflects. “ How lonely and desolate must she have 
been, when she gazed on her only and most ador¬ 
able Child, Who had died such a cruel death. Oh, 
Mother, give me patience. I am lonely—without 
friend or home. Teach me, by thine example, to 
bear my troubles with courage and resignation. I 
am very desolate—without hope;” and tears start 
into the girl’s eyes, and roll slowly down her cheeks. 

But presently a feeling of peace steals over her; 
a hopefulness takes possession of her heart, and she 
is able to think of her future life without fear; full 
of a certainty that all will be well with her; that 
God will not try her beyond her strength. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


As Kathleen sat in the big gallery alone, her 
hands clasped, her eyes fixed upon the beautiful 
painting that had moved her so deeply, a young 
man sauntered leisurely round, looking first at the 
pictures and then at a catalogue, which he carried 
in his hand. But it was evident, from his whole 
demeanor, that he was little interested in what he 
saw. His mind was preoccupied. He looked tired 
and weary, and there was an expression of dis¬ 
appointment in his handsome face. 

“ What a wdlderness this London is,” he sighed. 
“ To hope to meet anyone in the streets is absurd. 
And yet, what can I do ? Ten times have I been 
to that door, and have never been lucky enough to 
find her at home. But patience, Lionel Dean, per¬ 
severance must and shall win the day. I’ll sit for 
hours on those steps, if necessary, for see Kathleen 
132 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


133 


I will. I cannot take any interest in these things, 
so I’ll return to Camlet Square, at once.” 

And he was about to stride away, when a boy on 
crutches appeared, in one of the doorways, and rais¬ 
ing his voice, said: “ Come along, Kathleen, I’ve 
found what I want.” 

Lionel started, and turned eagerly round. 

At the sound of her name, the girl rose, stepped 
forward towards Jacky, then stopped short. A look 
of joyful recognition, a radiant smile of welcome 
flashed across her sweet face, and holding out her 
hands, she cried, in a voice full of emotion: “ Lionel! 
Am I dreaming? Or is this really, really you?” 

“ Really me. You are not dreaming, but wide 
awake, I assure you, Kathleen,” replied Lionel, joy¬ 
fully, and grasping her hands, he led her to a chair. 
“ And, oh, if you only knew how glad I am to see 
you. How—” 

“ But why did you not come ? ” 

“ I came as soon as I could. When I got back 
to Donegal, Kathleen, you had been gone three 
weeks. I was nearly mad with indignation when 
I learned how you and your mother had been 
treated. I then got your address from Father 


134 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


Lavens, but could not leave home until last week. 
Since my arrival in London, I have called many 
times at your aunt’s house, but you were always 
out, or they said you were. And as I have not 
the honor of Mrs. Selwood’s acquaintance, I could 
not do more than inquire for you at the door. I 
wrote to you last night, asking you to stay in, 
and was bitterly disappointed when I called this 
afternoon.” 

“ 1 never received your note, but I am glad our 
first meeting was here, amongst the pictures. It 
would have been awkward in Aunt Nora’s drawing¬ 
room—so stiff and formal.” 

As Jacky saw Kathleen go forward with joyful 
steps and outstretched hands, to meet this stranger, 
he felt a sudden pain at his heart. 

“He will take her away from me,” he cried, 
despairingly, “ and I shall be friendless once more.” 
Then turning, he fled away through the galleries 
alone. 

“ Did Father Lavens tell you how I had changed ? ” 
asked Lionel. “ How I have resolved, henceforth, 
to work for our poor people, and try to make them 
more comfortable, more secure in their homes?” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


135 


“ No. But I felt you would soon change, Lionel,” 
and her eyes, as she raised them to his, were full of 
emotion. “ I am so glad.” 

“ I thought you would be. During my father’s 
life, I can do little on our own estate. So I have 
made up my mind to work for Ireland in Parlia¬ 
ment. What do you say to that, Kathleen?” 

“ It is splendid. Oh, Lionel, I never hoped for 
so much as that. God grant you may do much 
good there.” 

“I trust so. And you,” very earnestly, “must 
pray that I may.” 

Something in his tone surprised the girl. In the 
old days he had been kind and considerate to all. 
But the question of religion had never been men¬ 
tioned by him, and few knew what the young man 
believed or disbelieved. Instinctively, Kathleen had 
felt that his faith was weak, and that he thought 
little about God, and his duty towards Him. But 
now, as he asked her to pray, there was a ring of 
sincerity in his voice, and earnestness that told of an 
increase of faith in his Creator. 

“ Yes. I will pray night and day,” she replied, 
gently. “ And you, Lionel, you too must ask God 


136 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


for His grace. It will be a noble work to fight— 
to labor that good laws may be made for our people. 
But oh, how doubly noble, if done for God, to please 
Him.” 

“ I am willing—anxious to work thus—Kath¬ 
leen, if you will help me. Will you?” 

“Oh, yes, assuredly,” smiling. “I will do what 
I can. My prayers shall be redoubled. But there 
is little else in my power. You see I am a gov¬ 
erness now, and my time—” 

“You a governess? I thought you lived with 
your aunt and cousins ? ” 

Kathleen looked at him sadly. A slight flush 
tinged her cheek, and she said quietly: 

“ Yes. I live with them, but I prefer to be inde¬ 
pendent. I have a very small sum of money—and 
that I wish to keep—as a provision for a rainy day.” 

Lionel bowed his head, and covering his face with 
his hands, groaned aloud. 

“And to think,” he cried, “that my father has 
brought you to this. When I think of your happy 
home—your mother’s tender care—and then hear 
that you are a governess—the sport of unruly chil¬ 
dren—worried and annoyed—” 



KATHLEEN MAVOUKNEEN. 


137 


“ Pardon me. My life is not so gloomy as that. 
I have only one pupil—my little lame cousin. He 
is fond of me. And I hope—I trust that I have a 
good deal of influence with him.” 

“ I am sure you have. But you are not, you 
cannot be happy.” 

Kathleen turned aside her head. A vision of 
the small, badly furnished attic, in which she was 
lodged ; the cold, repellant manner, in which her 
cousins treated her; the loneliness, from which she 
so frequently suffered, rose before her, and she knew 
not what to reply. 

“You are not happy. I can see that in your 
face,” he cried. “You cannot hide it from me. 
These people do not want you. But I do—every 
moment, every hour of my life. Kathleen, can you 
trust your happiness to me? Will you be my wife?” 

A great wave of crimson swept over the girl’s fair 
face, then died quickly away, leaving her paler than 
before. 

“ I would, gladly, if— But oh, Lionel, there are 
many barriers to our marriage.” 

“ I know of none. My father will not interfere. 
He has driven me from him, because of my political 


138 


KATHLEEN MAVOUENEEX. 


opinions. But I have a small private property, 
and though we shall not be rich, we shall have com¬ 
fort. Then, dearest, what Father Lavens said you 
would consider the greatest barrier to our union, 
will soon disappear, for I have determined to be¬ 
come a Catholic. 7 ’ 

He waited for a moment, expecting the girl to 
speak, but not a sound escaped her. The delicate 
profile, and softly rounded cheek, upon which the 
brilliant sunray fell, was all he could see of the ex¬ 
pressive face, and that told him little of what was 
passing in her mind. 

“Kathleen, I have spoken too soon? Do you 
doubt my sincerity, my love? 77 

She turned quickly. Her eyes shining, her lips 
trembling. 

“ Oh, no,” she cried. “ But, Lionel, my heart is 
too full for words. God has, indeed, been good to 
us both. I am frightened at the thoughts of so 
much happiness. 77 

“ Then, 77 he answered, a great flash of joy light¬ 
ing up his face; “you. can love me—you can be 
my angel, and help me to persevere in the work 
I have undertaken, encouraging me by word and 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


139 


example, leading me along the path to heaven. 
Tell me, dearest, is it so? Will you do this for 
me?” 

His earnestness touched the girl deeply. All her 
life she had loved him, looking upon him as her 
dearest friend. Now, he was to be something more. 
But she knew him well, and felt no fear. His heart 
had always been to her as an open book ; and in it, 
to her thinking, there was but one thing wanting, 
the gift of faith, the sanctifying touch of a divine 
religion. That would now be his. So, with the 
simple trust of a little child, Kathleen accepted his 
love, and promised to be his wife. 

Absorbed in their own happiness, they sat on, 
talking over their future, making plans for their life 
together. Hours passed. The afternoon closed in, 
and the gallery was deserted, except by the police¬ 
men and servants, who strolled leisurely round, 
glancing now and again at the girl and her com¬ 
panion, wondering when they would get up and 
depart. But suddenly the stillness was broken, 
and the clop, clop, of Jacky’s crutches, sounded 
through the rooms, as he limped towards them in 
great haste. 


140 


KATHLEEN MAVOTJRNEEN. 


Kathleen started to her feet in dismay, as she saw 
him approach. 

“Poor Jacky! How badly I have treated you. 
Lionel, this is my little cousin and pupil. You and 
he must be good friends.” 

Lionel looked at the boy with eyes full of com¬ 
passion. Then, pressing his hand warmly, he 
said: 

“You have been kind to Kathleen, she tells me. 
I am very grateful to you.” 

Jacky examined him closely, then turned away 
with a sigh. 

“It is time to go home, Kathleen,” he said, 
shortly, and taking no notice of Lionel’s remark. 
“We have stayed here too long.” 

“ I am sorry, dear,” she answered, flushing. 
“You must forgive me for keeping you. But, 
Jacky,” smiling radiantly, “ I am so happy. God 
has heard my prayers, dear. Heard them in a way 
that I should never have dared hope for; and,” 
clasping his hand, “ I am filled with gratitude and 
love.” 

“ I can well imagine it,” said Jacky, “ and I am 
glad.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


141 


Then, withdrawing his hand, he turned abruptly, 
and led the way out of the gallery. 

Some twenty years later, two figures stood to¬ 
gether upon the hill-side, gazing upon one of the 
most varied and picturesque scenes in Donegal. 
Strange, dark mountains, wreathed in ever-shifting 
mists, on the left. Below them, Sheephaven and 
that little “Downing’s Bay,” glisten upon the coast. 
Far out towards the horizon, rises the gloomy out¬ 
line of Horne Head. The wide Atlantic is beyond, 
and crests of foam rise up and flash whitely against 
the sky, and then disappear. Right before them, 
frowning darkly, is the mountain of Muckish. 
Along a rough, uneven road, some sure-footed 
horses pick their way; the riders doff their hats, 
whilst a couple of pretty, bright-eyed maidens, duck 
a curtsey and murmur, “good day,” with a smile 
and a blush, as they go past. 

“So here, at last, we stand together, as master 
and mistress in this country, that we love so well,” 
said Lionel Dean, turning to his companion; “and 
the responsibility of the welfare and happiness of 
these poor peasants rests upon our shoulders. It is 



142 


KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 


a terrible burden, my Kathleen, and I tremble when 
I reflect upon my own weakness and incapacity.” 

“Yes,” replied Kathleen, looking at him with 
sweet, grave eyes, “and so you might, dear, if you 
were not sure that God would assist you now, as 
He has done so mercifully in the past. Think, 
Lionel, of all the graces that have been ours. 
Think of your conversion; of Jacky’s recovery, 
and wonderful success as an artist; of our years of 
happy marriage; of the health and strength of our 
children; of your father’s illness, and beautiful, 
holy death, and your courage will be renewed a 
hundred-fold. Great, my husband, is God’s power 
and mercy. He, Who has been so good to us dur¬ 
ing these past years, will not desert us now. With 
His help w r e shall be able to effect many changes 
for the benefit of the poor around us.” 

“ I trust so, dearest,” cried Lionel, with emotion, 
“and forgive me for doubting it for a moment. With 
you, by my side, to guide and help me, 1 cannot 
falter or turn back. The question of the poor 
tenants’ happiness is a difficult one. Much has been 
done, during the last twenty years, but not enough. 
Not nearly enough.” 


KATHLEEN MAVOUEXEEX. 


143 


u Well, dear, we must still work, and hope and 
pray. Much has been done, much more shall and 
must be done. So, do not lose courage, my hus¬ 
band. Continue your noble efforts in Parliament, 
fight on bravely for the good cause, and when things 
look dark, do not forget to pray fervently, with faith. 
Every event of my life—of yours—is a proof of the 
power of prayer. With such a weapon in our hands, 
why should we fear?” 

“ Why, indeed, Mavourneen! And,” drawing her 
hand within his arm, “ we shall not. ‘ For God and 
our Lady ? was the old war-cry of the French. It 
shall be our motto in the battle we are fighting. 
But come, dearest, I have business to attend to, 
and the evening is closing in.” 

Then, with one long, lingering look at the wild 
and picturesque scenery, they passed slowly down 
the hill-side, to their beautiful home amongst the 
mountains. 


THE END. 







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